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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102221">What He's Lost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/superloonyluna/pseuds/superloonyluna'>superloonyluna</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tell me every terrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton is a Mess, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Miscommunication, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, Thomas Jefferson Being an Asshole, alexander hamilton / thomas jefferson - Freeform, but he has an actual reason, i attempt to keep some historical accuracy but probably fail, i think the writing improves as the story progresses, like an actual disaster, please ignore my pathetic knowledge of legal terminology, the entire plot is just both of them pretending they don't care, they're both stubborn and it's complicated, you think he can't get any more oblivious and then he does</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:26:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>124,681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/superloonyluna/pseuds/superloonyluna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(soulmate au where everything you lose appears as tattoos on your soulmate, and without them you can't survive)</p><p>Alexander has worked for everything he has in life, and has lost enough to know that he will never let himself fall for anyone; least of all an arrogant, Southern ratbag.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton &amp; Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tell me every terrible thing you ever did and let me love you anyway [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2292212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>fave fics for mental hellness</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the purpose of life is to be defeated</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! this is basically here because I couldn't find any other works with a good build. The au is a little complicated, so i've tried to explain it simply at the end notes, I suggest you read that before starting the actual fic as then it will hopefully make a bit more sense, and feel free to ask any questions. This first chapter is basically just an overview of Thomas' life so you know where he stands when the story starts, as the rest will be in Alexander's pov.</p><p>If you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment (at any point in the work) - I so enjoy reading your thoughts &lt;3</p><p>Also, sorry in advance because my writing is most likely a massive shit show - this was also my first fic ever and at the first few chapters are pretty terrible (sorry) but please be patient and I hope you stick with it :)</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Prologue: a leap through the years.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>um please note that I know about one French word and everything here and onwards is taken straight from google translate. Very sorry about the inevitable mistakes that will ensue</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>1953:</b> Thomas Jefferson is eleven years old and he thinks that he has the world at the tips of his fingers.<br/>
</p><p>Alone, he is sent off on a ship across the Atlantic Ocean to a remote, privately owned school in <i>Dordogne</i>, France. His parents have kindled his intellect: have channelled all their hopes into their eldest son. Thomas, buoyant and oblivious, tumbles through the corridors of the ancient building on his first morning and crashes into an equally animated Gilbert Lafayette. The two sidle into class, sheepishly taking seats at the back of the room. They are drawn to each other’s charisma, and for the next six years become something of a package deal.<br/>
</p><p>On his back, arms and ankles are inked designs; minutely detailed and puzzling. He doesn’t understand them – not really, and so doesn’t think much of them. But he takes comfort in their familiarity, and waits eagerly for another that inevitably appears every month or so. He and Lafayette compare, enthralled: Lafayette has four, he has thirty-six.<br/>
</p><p>Exceptionally bright, with a magnetic, boyish charm, Thomas takes in everything before him in a whirlwind. He and Lafayette – who has consistently refused to answer to his first name – spend the year careering through fields, learning the meaning of quick wit, and causing as much raucous disruption as they can.<br/>
</p><p>Towards the end of the year they have a class on behavioural science, and he learns what his tattoos mean. The thought that his future hangs on the existence of someone he may or may not even meet is a daunting one, but it still thrums through him with a simultaneous thrill.<br/>
He spends the summer with Lafayette’s family, and it is there that he falls in love with music. Although he cares deeply for his family, they have reputations to uphold and press a large, undeniable weight into his shoulders with this reminder. He is too young to know the burden it will bring, and is proud of the responsibility he must bear.<br/>
In the tight cobble stone streets of <i>Issoire</i> he runs, cackling, behind Lafayette, who he has dramatically dubbed <i>‘Minou’</i> after watching him shove an entire stick of butter in his mouth simply because Thomas said he couldn’t. Here, amid the old houses and the light pattering of their footfalls on the stones, he is alive, and forgets about the shoes he is expected to fill.</p><p><b>1956:</b> Thomas is fourteen now. He has read all the English books in the school’s small library, and then all those in French. He is sharp, confident, eager: life bubbles and spills out of him. His mind is wild, and has an uninhabited spontaneity he’s not sure how to channel. He finds himself itching to come across someone who will know something he doesn’t, who won’t blindly soak up all his opinions; who will throw something back at him – but Lafayette doesn’t care enough, and no one else can keep up.<br/>
</p><p>His tattoos have become something of a small worry that he consistently refuses to acknowledge. He now has over fifty. He finds himself constantly drawn to them, wondering, fruitlessly, how someone could have suffered so much loss.<br/>
</p><p>He and Lafayette are in the village near their school one weekend when he first notices the tiny words inked onto the side of his left arm. Wedged between a small rabbit, a stereo, and a basket of what he thinks might be cherries; it loops out the question: <i>‘do I dare disturb the universe?’</i> The village is small, and there is no bookshop, so he sits cross-legged against a shelf in the school’s tiny library for many consecutive afternoons and re-reads all the books they own. He shuts the last, barren cover with only a slight pull in his chest and, too stubborn and proud to ask his Professors for help, admits a reluctant defeat, thinking <i>well, that was a problem he could face later.</i><br/>
</p><p>He travels back home to Virginia for the first time at the request of his sister, his <i>favourite</i> sister, Jane, who he misses with a dull, constant ache. He finds her bearing tattoos drenched in colour and enveloped in misery; and it’s then he discovers the meaning of heartbreak. He holds her in his arms, wondering <i>what’s the point of it all</i> when the one person the universe has deemed you cannot physically live without has decides that you aren’t good enough for them. He grits his teeth against the knowledge of the unavoidable consequence of her soulmate’s rejection, and squeezes her shoulders tighter.<br/>
</p><p>It’s after this that he starts to wear long sleeves, begins to fear his tattoos; covers them up so no one, not even himself, can look at them. He resents the reality that gave his sister nothing but pain when she deserves everything good the world has to offer.</p><p><b>1959:</b> His last year at school. Thomas has been here long enough now, and is impatient to spread his arms and stand at the top of the world. He meets a girl who makes him think he knows what love is, but stomachs the unsurprised disappointment that curls through him when he presses his lips to the inked tulip in the dip of her collarbone and it remains black. He never once shows her his own tattoos. The two remain close, however, and he learns to love her like a sister.<br/>
</p><p>His father dies this year, and he feels, for the first time ever, at a loss. The pressure to perform, the responsibility he owes his family that has always lingered in the shadows was now a gaping hole he had to step into.<br/>
</p><p>He jumps with his eyes open.<br/>
</p><p>He still grabs handfuls out of life, still has a loud, contagious laugh – but he carries a small weight around his shoulders that wasn’t there before, and his eyes now hold an almost imperceptible shadow. He graduates three months before he and Lafayette are due to start university in America. They travel through France, England, the Swiss Alps. The world whirls past him and he accepts it all with his eyes wide, alive and fierce.</p><p><b>1960:</b> Thomas is seventeen now. He and Lafayette arrive on the steps of Princeton University with the other first years in a manner not too dissimilar from their eleven-year-old childishness. Following the Princeton tradition, after dark on their first night they head through the forest that hugs the university grounds to a thin clearing, lit up with the warm flames of a bonfire and the undulating shadows of moving bodies.<br/>
</p><p>It is here that Thomas first sees him.<br/>
</p><p>He and Lafayette are wedged between two girls he can’t remember the names of and a boy who introduced himself as Hercules – adding, as an afterthought <i>‘but not the god’</i> at which Lafayette had let out an undignified snort and proclaimed him the only god he would ever pray to. Here, holding a drink strong enough to make his throat burn, he glances over and, through the flames, his gaze catches on the baggy, slightly frayed sleeves of a dark green cardigan.<br/>
</p><p>The boy is small; his arms wrapped tightly around his knees and a shoulder brushing against the arm of the brazen, fiery girl next to him. Thomas has known Angelica for years – since they were children in fact, their families entwined together with the commonality of old money that Thomas couldn’t help but begrudge. The boy has his head ducked slightly as he listens with quiet intensity to her babbling, light waves of dark hair framing his face.<br/>
</p><p>Thomas feels a pull from somewhere near the bottom of his stomach that he can’t quiet explain, but he has forgotten about it entirely by the time he’s finished his drink. Three days later, he raises his hand to answer a question in a lecture on Conversation and Tradition and is met with a soft, derisive snort. Thomas glances behind him only to lock eyes with the boy from the fire. His stare is sharp, calculating and bottomless as he begins, with perfect eloquence, to counter Thomas’ answer.<br/>
</p><p>The buzz of exhilaration he has been craving for years jolts through him, and, impatient to feel it again, he finds the smaller boy after class: picking, taunting and teasing until he gets the response he craves. It ignites an endless stream of insults – yelled across the tables at dinner, spat over classroom discussions, hissed between library bookshelves.<br/>
</p><p>Thomas finds himself falling into the unshakable habit of scanning the room for the hunched shoulders, woollen sleeves or loose curls of Alexander Hamilton – the only person he has ever met who questions and despises everything he says. Almost unwittingly, Thomas’ eyes stray to him in class; pausing to watch him furiously scribble notes, lingering on the way he runs his hand distractedly through his curls.<br/>
</p><p>Lafayette, who, unlike Thomas, was not introduced through an argument, becomes close to him – and for no reason at all, Thomas feels a twinge of jealousy at the warm, easy smile Alexander gives his friend. Begrudgingly, after some months, he consents to admit that it’s more than just the thrill of an argument that he seeks, and that it maybe has a little more to do with the palpable tension that thrums between them, the spark in Alexander’s eye, the slightly erratic beat of his own heart.<br/>
</p><p>He dismisses it as best he can, propelling through the year like every other, filling his brain and making an easy name for himself.</p><p><b>1961:</b> The second year of college. Alexander runs into him on his way to class, and Thomas gets an unexplained jolt in his stomach as Alexander stands, slightly too close, hissing out the berated chastise of <i>watch where you’re going, asshole.</i><br/>
</p><p>At breakfast one morning he sees Alexander pause by a tear-stained first year surrounded by open books and scattered papers, take a seat next to her and patiently begin correcting her essay. Thomas watches his relaxed smile and swallows, grappling with the uncomfortable tightness clawing at his chest, and stubbornly refuses to look in Alexander's direction for the remainder of the week.<br/>
</p><p>He indulges in the next girl who takes it upon herself to cling to his arm, wondering what the hell he’s trying to prove and trying not to sound too unfeeling when he outright refuses to kiss her tattoos. <i>Don’t you want to know?</i> she asks him. He shakes his head, <i>no, not really,</i> and pushes the memory of a green scruffy cardigan sleeve lit by firelight far from his mind.<br/>
</p><p>He spends the midterm break at the head of the long table in his family’s business room, dutifully leaning the only thing his father asked of him. The lonely grand piano sits in the corner of the room in a blunt reminder of <i>we don’t always get what we want.</i><br/>
</p><p>Back at college, he is at the back of the room with Lafayette in a class on Collective Debating, mutely watching Alexander take apart his opposition piece by piece. Thomas is fascinated by it because, despite his confidence, has always hated the sound of his own voice, prefers to get his points down with frankest abridgement he could manage. Alexander’s verbal torrent is prolix and discursive and yet simultaneously concise and until now Thomas has never understood the phrase <i>words can be your greatest weapon,</i> and he’s reverently thankful he’s standing here, in the corner of the room, not across the table in front of him, having the sheer force of Alexander’s electric energy radiate over him - knowing that if that searing, ferocious gaze was directed on him he wouldn’t be able to get out a single cohesive sentence.<br/>
</p><p>He feels Lafayette’s eyes on him and returns the confused furrow in his forehead with a defensively raised eyebrow, even though Lafayette really does have a point, and he doesn’t have a whole lot to back his defence.<br/>
</p><p>He wonders what might have happened if they hadn’t met through a fight, if he could’ve kept his mouth shut for once; but they were so entrenched in habitual arguments now for the routine to be broken.<br/>
</p><p>He and Lafayette spend the summer break in France, and he tries every single thing offered to him because what’s there to lose? He likes the anonymity, the detached nature of the stolen kisses, and ardent, fumbling fingers that are concealed by the darkened entrails of Paris; likes nights that don’t end with a plaintive <i>but what about your tattoos?</i><br/>
</p><p>One night, drunk and brooding with the knowledge that he ached for something he would never obtain, he confesses to Lafayette who, equally drunk, mumbles that <i>se crier moins peut aider – yelling at him less might help.</i><br/>
</p><p>But, regardless of how he hides them, Thomas knows what his tattoos mean. If they were meant for each other, Alexander would’ve surely felt something by now – and by his muted contempt, sullen glances, derisive comments; Thomas can only assume that he doesn’t. Much as he hates to admit it, he would rather Alexander scream in his face than never speak to him at all, and wonders, glumly bereft, if this is anywhere close to what his sister felt.<br/>
</p><p>A month before third year starts, Thomas travels back home to hold her hand at the thinly veiled warning in his mother’s letter that soon he wouldn’t be able to. Some days Jane can smile at him weakly in the ghosted semblance of her pervious charisma, and some days she is too weak to say anything at all. Slowly, she withdraws from life until she is nothing but the barest wisp of everything she used to love.<br/>
</p><p>Thomas looks into her pale face, at her tattoos that have caused her nothing but pain, and promises himself that he will push aside whatever tug Alexander has on him because it’s not worth it. Instead, he tells his sister he’ll see her in the midterm break, and that he loves her more than life itself. She takes the pendant that has hung around her neck for as long as Thomas can remember, presses it into his hand and tells him, her eyes sparkling with the barest hint of her old cynicism; <i>if you don’t play the piano at my funeral then don’t bother coming.</i> He swallows back the desperate <i>don’t say that</i> which longs to ignore the situation for as long as he is physically capable, shrugs a shoulder and grins instead; <i>maybe I’ll read the Constitution so you’ll have to stay alive out of disgust.</i><br/>
</p><p>He begins third year accompanied by the mantra of <i>not worth it, not worth it, not worth it.</i> He walks into the lecture hall on his first day, and resists the gravitational pull to flick his gaze upwards. He greets Lafayette instead, allowing himself the tiny indulgence of a sneered insult in Alexander’s general direction, clenching his fists in his lap to delude himself into believing that they are definitely not shaking.<br/>
</p><p>He thinks of Jane instead, and promises that he will not let himself fall for someone who doesn’t want him back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from the english translation of "The Man Watching" (II) by Rainer Maria Rilke. Also the tattoo is a quote from "The lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot</p><p>Minou: translates roughly to 'Kitty.'</p><p> </p><p>so I finally got around to editing this however many months later. Anyway, as always feel free to talk to me in the comments.<br/>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. full of things that have never been</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a reminder that the rest of this is in Alexander's pov :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alexander was woken abruptly by the soft thwack of something against his side. He cracked open an eye, squinting in the light that flooded the room, and there was John holding a pillow and grinning down at him.</p><p>“Did you really have to?” he mumbled, half into his elbow.</p><p>“Enjoying your first and last proper sleep of the term?” John asked, turning to drop the pillow back on his own bed before heading towards the door of their dorm room, apparently satisfied that he’d done his job.</p><p>“I <i>do</i> sleep,” Alexander retorted more for the sake of it than anything, because John was right, and he didn’t.</p><p>John snorted, obviously decided there was no point in arguing, but paused halfway through the door to call, “well, I’m eating even if you’re not. Also class starts in half an hour.”</p><p>Alexander scowled at the door as it clicked shut behind him, but shuffled out of bed none the less – he probably shouldn’t be late to his first class of the semester. Besides, he hadn’t even received his timetable yet. He rummaged through his suitcase for something to wear, then wasted a few more minutes staring around blearily for socks. Despite having only arrived back late yesterday afternoon, their room was already a mess; Alexander’s shirts tangled up with half of John’s things in a haphazard pile between their beds. After upending his suitcase onto the floor and still no socks, he gave up and borrowed a pair of John’s before grabbing a new notebook and heading out of their dorm suite into the quad.</p><p>Princeton was an old but beautiful university; a maze of airy sandstone corridors, open, breezy classrooms and high ceilings. The great hall, mainly used for meals and the occasional function, often reminded Alexander of the inside of a cathedral. Tall, narrow windows ran down the length of the room flanking six long wooden benches that ran in parallel threes.</p><p> </p><p>The hall was buzzing when Alexander arrived, greetings thrown back and forward across the tables amid the tangible undercurrent of excitement that comes hand in hand with the return after a long break. He spotted John and Lafayette towards the middle of the room, sitting with a couple of other people he recognised from his classes last semester, and so started to weave a slow path through the throng until he reached them, throwing his book down onto the table and sliding into the bench beside Lafayette.</p><p>“Alexander, <i>mon amor,</i>” Lafayette dropped his spoon to throw an arm around Alexander’s shoulders and press an exaggerated kiss to his cheek. “You are late.”</p><p>His accent - always thicker after spending time at home in France during the fall break - bled into his words and Alexander smiled at the familiarity, grumbling on principle; “at least I’m <i>here.</i>”</p><p>John rolled his eyes, flicking a sheet of paper across the table and, through a mouthful; “you missed the announcement, but that’s your timetable.”</p><p>Alexander poured himself a cup of coffee before Lafayette could pull the jug out of his reach, glancing down the table for something to eat and letting out a small huff at the sight of empty toast racks. Wordlessly John pushed his own plate towards him and Alexander grabbed his last piece of toast gratefully, shooting him a grin and squinting down at his schedule. Today wasn’t bad: a tutorial, (‘Politics and Literature’) at nine, followed by a two-hour lecture for ‘Law, Development and Progressive Human Rights.’  Afterwards, he had a break, which normal people would use to eat and which he would probably spend in the library – or maybe hunt down Eliza – and lastly a practical class for law. He frowned at the little pink box for a moment, wondering how law could be a practical unit before realising it was probably for debating.</p><p>“Ah, I also have the lecture,” Lafayette said, glancing over Alexander’s shoulder as he pushed himself up off the bench. “I will see you there, <i>non?</i>”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander nodded distractedly, looking over his classes for the rest of the week, only glancing up when he felt John nudge his arm.</p><p>“Come on, we should probably get going as well.”</p><p>He was right; because when Alexander finally flicked his gaze up to the clock it read five to nine, so he stuffed the last of the toast into his mouth, slipping the timetable between the pages of his book before following John out of the hall and through the corridor leading to the wing of the university devoted to literary studies. The door to their classroom was open, so they filed through the chattering students to some empty seats at the back of the room. </p><p>Predictably, the professor was late, so Alexander turned to John. “Have you seen Herc yet?”</p><p>“Yeah, oh -” John reached out a hand, wrapping his fingers around Alexander’s wrist and squeezing a little, his eyes growing wide; “guess what?”</p><p>“He dropped out.”</p><p>“No, you idiot,” John shook his head fondly, leaning forwards on his desk so Alexander could hear him over the thrum of voices, “he found his soulmate.”</p><p>“He – what!”</p><p>“I <i>know,</i>” John beamed, little dimples forming in the round curve of his cheeks. Alexander reached out to poke one, grinning when John batted his hand away; “you should have seen his tattoos.”</p><p>“Oh?” Alexander said, his smile faltering a little. He swallowed his instinctive reply, something along the lines of <i>lucky for some,</i> which was just petty of him and jealousy never looked good on anyone, so he took a deep breath and aimed for something more neutral; “did you meet them?”</p><p>“We don’t even know who she is,” John shrugged, “apparently they met over the break doing some material course – you know what he’s like. Anyway, she’s a second year, transferred from some university in England. He barely even spared us a minute this morning, just rushed by to tell us then disappeared to find her.”</p><p>The professor entered, and John dropped his voice to a whisper, “he seemed so happy though, and think how young they both are! At least <i>one</i> of us will get to grow old.”</p><p>He was joking, Alexander knew, smiling even though the corners of his mouth pulled down a little sadly, adding; “damn, he’s lucky.”</p><p>Alexander nodded, turning to the front as the professor started to introduce the unit. Of course he was happy for Hercules; they both were, because John’s comment was an unfortunate understatement; it was rare, and Hercules was <i>very</i> lucky: to meet your soulmate is something most people spend their whole lives hoping for, often fruitlessly.</p><p>Alexander knew the consequences; the dangers of not finding your soulmate had been ingrained into him and so he couldn’t <i>not</i> know, but still – the idea of relying so completely on someone else terrified him. Throughout his life, everything he’d ever loved had somehow resulted in some kind of loss; his mamá, his family, his home – and a soulmate he would probably never meet felt like another inevitability of pain.</p><p><i>“El mundo sigue lleno de gente mala, mi amor,” - the world is still full of bad people, my love,</i> his mamá had said, voice tinged with regret, a soft hand on his cheek that he’d leant into and said nothing even though he knew what she meant; <i>happy endings aren’t always granted to people like us.</i>  </p><p>The fact that he only had ten tattoos constantly grated into his conscience, mingling with his mamá’s warning and morphing the idea of soulmates into something too daunting for him to even begin to hope for. By his age, most people had double that number, and he could only think of one reason why he had so few; in their whole lifetime, his soulmate had only experienced significant loss ten times. To him, that sounded like quite an easy life; couldn’t imagine what kind of wealth and privilege that would connote. He would never be able to be good enough for someone like that – not with everything he had been through. John used to joke that if Alexander ever met his soulmate, he wouldn’t be able to see their skin under all the tattoos.</p><p>But although loss was part of him now – so familiar it was almost comforting – he knew the fate he was resigning himself to: soulmates were more than simply a life partner – they were a survival necessity. Without them you were biologically incomplete; people who never met, or rejected their soulmate suffered illnesses and exhaustion that grew progressively worse until, if you still hadn’t met your soulmate by thirty, thirty-five if you were lucky, your immune system would be so weakened you wouldn’t survive a common cold.</p><p>Alexander was used to being left behind, was so accustomed to disappointment that it was hard for him to believe that his soulmate would be any different. If life had taught him anything, it was that everyone left at one point or another. The way he saw it, if he only had around ten years left, then so be it. While most people his age spent their time at parties, travelling, networking – <i>anything</i> that would enable them to meet as many new people as possible in the hope that one would be their soulmate, Alexander had other priorities; he needed to get his degree, he needed to make his mamá proud.</p><p><i>Evolution is more fucked than you are,</i> Angelica had told him once, blunt but not unkind. It was, quite literally, a quest for survival that only around a third of the population actually succeeded in. Alexander had long since accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be one of them.</p><p> </p><p>They mingled outside with a few others after class for a minute or two then split ways, John heading towards the library and Alexander up two floors to his next lecture. It was a large class, and it took him a moment before he spotted Lafayette halfway towards the back of the theatre, inwardly cursing at the amount of stairs he had to climb.</p><p>“<i>Ah, petit escargot,</i>” Lafayette smirked at him as he slumped into a seat. “Getting old, I see.”</p><p>“Piss off,” he grumbled, only slightly out of breath, a little annoyed because there were plenty of empty chairs nearer the front and not <i>everyone</i> was blessed with long legs, and because he was still thinking about Hercules, so added; “did you hear?”</p><p>“Herc? Yes,” Lafayette muttered, turning to face the front, seeming distinctly less ecstatic than John had been, his expression a little sulky. “I am so happy for him. So happy, and not at all jealous.”</p><p>Alexander laughed, happened to glance at the door and scowled when he saw who had just walked in. </p><p>Thomas Jefferson was making his way towards them, walking slowly up the steps and talking to a girl Alexander vaguely recognised from a class the previous year.</p><p>Jefferson, Alexander had decided, was everything he disliked rolled up in one. He had the rare ability of commanding attention just by merely stepping into a room – and, while Alexander argued in a verbal torrent that could be termed verbose, shoved as many words into his sentences as he could; never sure what was enough or when to stop, <i>Jefferson</i> did know – spoke in trimmed, concise sentences that fitted together seamlessly; which Alexander couldn’t stand because it made him sound childish when they debated against each other – <i>inadequate</i> in a way he had hoped he would never feel again. Alexander had never owned much, spent his life fighting his way towards everything he had, where as the Jefferson family were steeped in traditional prestige, had the lucky draw of old money that meant opportunities were easy to come by. Alexander had come to assume that people who’ve never had to fight for anything tend to take everything for granted; and was certain Jefferson had grown up in France for the hell of it, already bored with America at ten years old.</p><p>Arrogantly intelligent, unfortunately well spoken and opinionated. That was fine – so were the majority of students at Princeton. However he was also undeniably attractive, though Alexander would rather die before admitting that to anyone. Tall, with dark caramel skin and a wide, easy smile he seemed content to throw carelessly in every direction but Alexander’s. </p><p>Not that he cared.</p><p>At the start of first year; Alexander had been sitting by the fire with Angelica at the initiation bonfire night when he had looked across, catching sight of the mess of curls, and wondered vaguely how anyone could have the audacity to look that good.</p><p><i>Who the hell is that?</i> he had asked her.</p><p>Following his gaze she shrugged indifferently, told him that their families knew each other through social circles and that she could introduce them.</p><p>Before she could fulfil her promise however, Alexander had seen Jefferson in class, had offered a counter to his argument, eager to prove he was just as worthy as everyone else of Jefferson’s attention, despite his background and lack of familial connections. He had learnt the hard way that opening his mouth never lead to anything good – it had not ensued the friendship, or whatever had been at the back of Alexander’s mind, but years of animosity and belittlement.</p><p>No one could understand their adamant dislike of each other. Often, Alexander didn’t either, but he didn’t like how Jefferson somehow made him feel exposed and vulnerable – something he was usually good at covering up.</p><p> </p><p>He kept up his stubborn glare as Jefferson made his way up the theatre, when a ruffle of cloth next to him jolted his attention as Lafayette stood.</p><p>“Don’t you dare -” he hissed sharply, but Lafayette was already calling down the few rows between them. Jefferson turned at the sound of his voice, grinning when he spotted Lafayette and murmuring something Alexander had no trouble guessing the gist of to the girl he had been speaking to, before making his way towards them.</p><p>Alexander muttered a vehement “fuck you” in Lafayette’s direction, and determinedly focused on not noticing how Jefferson’s Southern accent, normally so prominent, disappeared completely when he spoke French. He reached up a hand to push his hair out of his face, and Alexander was watching the movement dispassionately when Jefferson’s gaze slid away from Lafayette and locked with his.</p><p>“Still here then?” He sneered as he sat down, Lafayette sandwiched between them. “And here I was hoping they’d shipped you back to your island.”</p><p>“For the love of god, spare me,” Lafayette groaned, sinking down in his seat as though resigning himself to the inevitable.</p><p>Alexander ignored them both purely out of spite for the rest of the lecture, and left before Lafayette even had the chance to turn around. Deciding he didn’t have time for lunch, he headed towards the library instead, thinking he could read ahead for his classes tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>A little over an hour later, head buried between the pages of ‘Auden in Context,’ he realised with a start that his law practical had started five minutes ago.</p><p>It was a small class in an even smaller room and was already set up specifically for debates; the students spread out in chairs at either side of the room with two desks facing each other in the middle. The professor ignored Alexander’s mumbled apology as he entered, continuing instead with his introduction and Alexander slid into the last remaining chair.</p><p>It took him a few moments to realise who was in the seat next to him and resisted the urge to get up and walk straight back out again.</p><p>The professor was pacing back and forward between them all. “This class is designed to prepare you for the realities of the workforce if you so choose to follow a profession in practical law. You will work in pairs, and each week will debate a case against a more experienced fifth year student. For this first session, I will debate against Samuel Seabury, who should be here in a moment. Take notes of strategies and the quick formulation of counter arguments and rebuttal points.</p><p>I understand that you may have to argue a case you believe to be untrue or morally incorrect. However, I encourage you not to let this infringe on your argument. Your questions for your first debate will be handed out to you at the end of this session, and for the sake of simplicity, partner with whoever is seated beside you.”</p><p>Alexander shot a disgusted look to his right.</p><p>Jefferson raised a cool eyebrow, murmuring softly; “next time don’t assume punctuality is beneath you.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s <i>beneath</i> me,” Alexander muttered indignantly, “I forgot.”</p><p>“What a surprise,” Jefferson rolled his eyes.</p><p>The door opened and a tall, dark haired boy entered with a nod towards the professor, who turned to the class. “Open for debate: in cases of intestacy, should an individual have the right to claim land of a deceased family member or should it automatically pass into property of the state?”</p><p> </p><p>Forty-five minutes later, class had ended and Alexander was still furiously scribbling. When his mind had cleared somewhat, he looked up to find the room empty except for Jefferson; leaning against one of the desks and watching him silently.</p><p>“Yes?” he bit out, gathering his pages and standing.</p><p>“I’m curious, do you always write like the world is about to explode before you finish?”</p><p>“At least I take notes.”</p><p>Jefferson laughed; “not all of us <i>need</i> to take notes, you know.”</p><p>The word ‘insufferable’ flitted through Alexander’s mind. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere?”</p><p>“Well, since your dumbass doesn’t know the meaning of time,” Jefferson said with a sigh, pushing himself off the desk, “we have to figure out what to do about this.”</p><p>Alexander eyed the sheet of paper he was waving. “I have a couple of hours after a tutorial tomorrow that finishes at nine thirty, if you wanted to discuss it,” he offered reluctantly, although to be honest, the idea of both of them discussing anything with some semblance of civility was frankly hilarious.</p><p>Jefferson nodded, expression blank, and began walking to the door before turning abruptly. “Is that a poetry tutorial? Romantics to modernism or something like that?”</p><p>“Since when did you take a poetry elective,” Alexander frowned, annoyed because poetry was <i>his</i> thing, following Jefferson out into the corridor and mentally resigning himself to a term that now consisted of three shared classes.</p><p>“Apologies, I didn’t realise I had to check with you beforehand,” Jefferson sneered, not bothering to look in his direction as he started off down the corridor.</p><p>Alexander watched him go, scowling, before making his way back to his dorm room to find John already there; splayed across his bed and flicking discontentedly through his anatomy book. He was taking a double major of Human Biology and English Literature, meaning Alexander would often walk in to find John excitedly in the middle of dissecting a brain, or part of the kidney, or some other body part Alexander didn’t want to think of. His pleas of ‘unhygienic’ fell on deaf ears.</p><p>He was used to it – they had known each other since high school; the two had met at orientation and were inseparable from the start. Realising Alexander had no one, John’s mother, Eleanor, had taken it upon herself to make up for everything he never had. Alexander owed her more than he could ever give back.</p><p>He let the door slam emphatically, and John glanced up over the top of a diagram of the dermis layers, raising a questioning eyebrow.<br/>“So, we’re in pairs for debating,” he began, dropping his book down and falling heavily onto his bed, “and take a wild fucking guess who I’m with.”</p><p>John smothered a smile, propping his chin up in his palm. “Good start to the term I take it?”</p><p>Alexander ignored him, glaring at the ceiling. “Are we having the bonfire tonight?” The prospect of smothering everything in alcohol was rather enticing.</p><p>“No.” John turned his attention back to his page. “In the next few weeks, probably. A couple fifth years think some professors know, so they decided to wait a while so we don’t get caught.”</p><p>Alexander scoffed. “Please, they’ll have known about it for years.”</p><p>The tradition of the bonfire had been started by a group of six years: bored, tired, and in the mood to give the first years a bit of a shock. It had mellowed considerably since, and didn’t involve as many ruthless pranks as it once had.</p><p>“Well, if we’re not getting drunk tonight I’m going to the library.”</p><p>“Again?” John looked up at him incredulously. “You’ve been there all day.”</p><p>“Do you not know me?” Alexander gave him a soft swipe across the head, shutting the door behind him before John had the chance to roll his eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is a quote by Rainer Maria Rilke</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Invisible lines are crossed.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I should be studying for midterms, but here I am writing this to procrastinate. Sue me. Anyway, here's another chapter. I don't really know what I'm doing, so please tell me what you think of it so far!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alexander was leaving the dining hall the next morning on his way to class when he heard the shout of his name behind him and turned to see Eliza squeezing her way through the throng of people crowding the exit. A smile pushed its way easily onto his face as she paused to press a kiss to his cheek before slipping her hand through his and tugging him gently up the corridor. </p><p>“Querida.” He greeted her, using a Spanish pet name his mother had been fond of, and which he reserved only for Eliza. </p><p>“You have poetry now, yes?” Her voice was soft; warm and comforting. Eliza was one of the few people Alexander didn’t feel like he had to be in constant competition with. </p><p>He nodded with a slight smile. </p><p>“Ha! I knew you would be. The class was on the elective line that allows students from mixed grades, so of course I picked it.” </p><p>Eliza was in her second year, meaning they only shared the occasional class together. </p><p>He looked down at her - well, more like across – and said softly, “I missed you.”</p><p>“I know, I know.” She squeezed his hand. “I did try to find you yesterday, but then I thought you’d already be in the library, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”</p><p>“You know you can disturb me anytime. For whatever reason.” He winked, and she snorted. </p><p>“Oh, you wish. Did you have a good break? Or should I not bother asking that.” </p><p>He shrugged indifferently. “It was fine. I got an internship with a local newspaper, which will be good for experience and all that, but it was mainly just to cover dorm expenses for this term.” </p><p>“But Alex, that’s such a good opportunity.” She looked at him earnestly. “So many people start as interns in huge companies, and then gradually work their way up until they’re a director or something.” </p><p>“Yeah.” Another shrug. One of Eliza’s favourite past times was to nag him into doing something he loved, rather than what he thought was necessary. “Maybe. I think one summer was enough.”</p><p>“Why?” She tugged on his arm. “You should give it a chance – how do you know you won’t change your mind?”</p><p>“Because it’s tedious.” He rolled his eyes as they turned into their classroom. Pointedly ignoring Jefferson, who was already seated and leaning back in his chair to talk to some people in the row behind him, Alexander dragged Eliza away from him to the back of the room, internally cursing the fact that she was friendly with literally everyone. </p><p>“Hey!” She protested, “I wanted to say hello!”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t.” </p><p>Bemused, she shook her head, letting go of his hand in order to rummage through her bag for her notebook. </p><p>“Anyway.” She sat down and turned sideways in her seat to face him. “I was going to say; I spent the summer being dragged from function to function, as per usual,” she rolled her eyes slightly and Alexander gave a sympathetic nod – Eliza’s mother was desperate for Eliza to find her soulmate. </p><p>“Anyway, one night I was sitting there and smiling at people I couldn’t even remember being introduced to, and I was like, why am I even wasting my time here? I know what I want to be doing, so why aren’t I doing it? Screw all their highflying aspirations -” She looked slightly uncomfortable, “Well, not really – but they’ve got Angelica for that. So, I changed my major.”</p><p>“Really?” </p><p>Eliza’s dream, for years, was to start an orphanage. She had articles that she’d collated for years taped to the back of the door in her dorm room which detailed all the documented mistreatment discovered in orphanages over the world over the past century. Her father, however, had stamped down Eliza’s plan for a degree in social work, and instead enrolled her in engineering. Alexander knew she was lucky – it was a struggle for most women to convince their parents to allow them to even attend university, while Eliza’s parents insisted she go. </p><p>“Yes!” Her eyes shone; bright, alive and hopeful. He could have stared into them forever. </p><p>“Proud of you.” He nudged his shoulder lightly against hers and she smiled softly, then glanced at him. </p><p>“You could always do the same, you know.”</p><p>“Querida, we’ve been over this at least a hundred times. Poetry isn’t going to get me anywhere.” </p><p>“Yes it will!”</p><p>Holding back a smile he raided an eyebrow. “Okay, where?”</p><p>She gestured vaguely around the classroom. “Uh, remind me what we’re here to study? These people made such an impression in the artistic world that their work is still used to comment on the whole of society – of humanity. I think that’s definitely classified as somewhere.” </p><p>The professor walked in at that point, dumped his back down on a desk and then began making his way slowly around the room, distributing a thin book to each student as he went. </p><p>Alexander dropped his voice a little. “Yeah, and you know what we aren’t here to study? Failed poets. Of which there are a lot. And, trust me, I’d only be adding myself to the ever growing list.” </p><p>Eliza offered the professor a smile as he passed their row. “Thank you.” </p><p>Then, turning back to face him; “Well, okay fine. Just don’t blame me when you’ve withered away by the time you’re thirty obsessing over declaration bills, or the yearly budget – or whatever the hell your degree involves.”</p><p>Alexander laughed, stopping himself quickly as a couple of people turned in their seats, including Jefferson. Their eyes locked for a split second before Jefferson raised his eyebrows in cynical amusement. Alexander turned back to Eliza. </p><p>“I’m going to be withered away by the time I’m thirty regardless of what I do.”</p><p>Eliza rolled her eyes. “Ever the pessimist.”</p><p>“You know it,” he grinned, taking out his notebook as the professor called everyone’s attention. He pulled the book that had been placed at the top of his desk towards him and glanced at the cover; ‘Auden; Collated Shorter Poems.’</p><p> </p><p>Alexander was still writing - Funeral Blues now incarcerated by scribbles, when the professor wrapped up the lesson and students began filing noisily out. Eliza scooped up her books and leant over briefly to kiss his cheek before standing up. </p><p>“I have to run to another class – I’d say I’ll see you at lunch but I know you won’t be there. So I’ll find you later, yes?”</p><p>He hummed in agreement, still writing, and blindly reached out his left hand, groping for hers on the desk and giving it a squeeze by way of a goodbye. </p><p>He finished his last note and shut his book, then, feeling eyes on him, looked up. Once again the classroom was empty except for Jefferson, two rows in front of him and twirling a pen idly between his fingers. Thinking it was overly petty to actually wait for him to start an argument, Alexander was about to bite out an insult when he remembered. </p><p>Crap. </p><p>“Any time in the next century, Hamilton,” Jefferson drawled, his accent curling around the words. “Please, take your sweet time.” </p><p>Alexander ignored him. “Let’s just get this over with. Library?”</p><p>“Nah.” Between his fingers, the pen spun so fast it blurred into a circle. “Let’s just stay here. I don’t think the room’s being used.”</p><p>“Right.” He paused, then realised Jefferson wasn’t going to move anywhere. He swallowed a pejorative; stood resignedly and walked to the row in front of Jefferson, pulling out a chair and turning it to face him to they were sat opposite across the desk. </p><p>Already he was annoyed that he hadn’t had any coffee at breakfast. Or alcohol. </p><p>“So.” He began after a beat of weighted silence broken only by Jefferson’s smirk. “I did some research -”</p><p>“- of course you did.”</p><p>“And the only documented examples of a similar situation I could find were all from countries that shared quite an antagonistic relationship. So, obviously that’s not very useful.” He laid the paper with their question down on the table: ‘Richard Davidson, a Canadian citizen, assonated six American politicians. The murder was committed in America, and he was tried and sentenced to life imprisonment by the American court. For and against: Should he live out his sentence in America, or is this a Canadian liability?’</p><p>He paused. “Were we even given a side?”</p><p>“You know what I don’t understand?”</p><p>“Everything, apparently.”</p><p>“How you can take more notes than the rest of the class put together, and yet still miss half the instructions.” </p><p>Alexander glared at Jefferson until he sighed; “We have to prepare for both and it’ll be decided right before we debate.”</p><p>“For fucks sake.” He resisted, with some effort, the urge to tare the paper in half. That meant double the amount of time they’d have to spend together. </p><p>“Well, let’s outline some basic points so we have something to go off and then we can just do the research separately.” </p><p>He pulled a spare sheet of paper from his book and began to write, dictating when he realised Jefferson would be reading upside down. “For… since the sentence was given by the American court, not the Canadian, it should be their responsibility to carry out their own sentencing, regardless of citizenship.”</p><p> </p><p>“How the fuck can you classify that as a legitimate argument.”</p><p>“If a court issues a sentence, they have a duty to fulfil it themselves. They can’t go palming off every case they don’t want to deal with to another country at their convenience.” </p><p>“Sure, when those cases relate to their own citizens. Why should they have to take the responsibility of foreigners?”</p><p>“Because they gave the sentence,” Alexander repeated, his voice rising very slightly. “Canada may have given a completely different sentence. Why should they take responsibility over something that they didn’t even have a say in.” </p><p>“He murdered six politicians. You’d think the sentences would have been pretty similar.”</p><p>Across from him, Jefferson was leaning back in his seat, a pitying sneer curving his lip. Alexander could feel his animosity towards him mounting by the second. </p><p>He shook his head irritably. “Where you’re from shouldn’t be of consequence.” </p><p>“Well, unfortunately,” Jefferson said loftily, “it matters considerably.” </p><p>“That’s a matter of personal opinion,” he spat out.</p><p>“No, it’s a matter of fact.”</p><p>“What!” Alexander couldn’t believe him. “Why should Canada, which had absolutely no input in the trial, have to deal with the outcome of America’s jurisdiction.” He could hear himself getting louder and louder, and decided he didn’t care. </p><p>“Are you kidding?” Jefferson scoffed. “Why should a country waste millions of dollars dealing with a criminal who isn’t even a citizen?”</p><p>Apart from being furious at his moronic obstinacy, Jefferson’s barely concealed amusement was beginning to nettle him. </p><p>“That’s irrelevant. He could have lived in America his whole life.”</p><p>“Your point? That would change nothing.”</p><p>“It would!” Between them, the air hung thickly. </p><p>Again, stubbornly; “it doesn’t matter where you’re from.”</p><p>“Oh no, definitely not.” Jefferson rolled his eyes, and his mirth began to dissipate. “It only determines the most important things about you.”</p><p>“It determines nothing!” Under the table, his hand curled into a fist. </p><p>Jefferson raised a cool eyebrow. “Really? Prove it.” </p><p>“What!” He spluttered. The arrogant fucking bastard. Suddenly, he wasn’t even sure if they were still arguing about the question. </p><p>Jefferson leaned forward slightly, bearing an expression that made Alexander want to hit him. “Then tell me,” he hissed, “where would you be if you hadn’t received a scholarship here.”</p><p>Alexander stood abruptly, his chair falling back against the desk behind him. </p><p>“Fuck you.” His voice shook. </p><p>“Tell me it matters.” Jefferson’s eyes glinted. </p><p>“It doesn’t.” He spat out. “Just because you have money thrown at you. At least I’ve earned what I have – all you have to do is go crying to daddy whenever you need something -”</p><p>“Shut your mouth.” Jefferson stood up so fast Alexander took an involuntary step backwards and almost fell back onto the desk. He hated that Jefferson towered half a head above him. Between them, the air crackled. </p><p>“Leave my family out of this.” Jefferson’s voice was venom; instantaneous and final. </p><p>“Aw.” Alexander feigned concern; a slight attempt to shake his vulnerability. “Touched a nerve, I see.”</p><p>“You’re not the only one who’s worked for what they have.”</p><p>The vulnerability that had crept in vanished instantly. The absolute shitbag. His expression morphed into a disdainful sneer. “You wouldn’t know work if it slapped you in the face.” </p><p>“If you quit feeling sorry for yourself, you’d realise you’re not the only one who’s sacrificed things to get here.” Jefferson’s teeth were gritted. </p><p>“You arrogant piece of shit. I’d hardly call begging daddy to buy your way through life sacrif- ”</p><p>“I told you to leave my family out of this!” The words were hissed; dangerous and spitting. </p><p>Alexander ignored their warning, rattling on. “Although, so much privilege must be very hard to deal with.” </p><p>He pouted; Jefferson’s jaw was set. “My family is too perfect! I can’t cope! I can’t -”</p><p>“At least I have a family.” Jefferson’s eyes were ice as he cut through him.</p><p>The words slapped him across the face; a bruising stain spreading in their wake. His lungs hung hollow in his chest. </p><p>Around them, the air was empty. </p><p>Jefferson’s expression shifted very slightly, his eyes blank, and his hand moved slightly across the table. A white flag. </p><p>“Hamilton -”</p><p>There was a ringing in his ears that morphed Jefferson’s voice into an inaudible mumble. Alexander turned, face blank and arms limp, and walked from the room leaving Jefferson standing amid the ghosted ruins of their argument. </p><p>The corridor stretched out; luminous and taunting on either side of him. He waited for the ringing in his ears to subside, but it kept up; loud and persistent so he turned and began walking blindly in the direction of his dorm. </p><p>It was, he told himself as he climbed the stairs, the truth. Really, he had no grounds to be angry. His shoulders sagged imperceptibly, and suddenly he felt impossibly tired: the weight of years of defiance settling around him. </p><p>Shutting the door of his room he stared at his bed against the far wall and the more he thought about closing the distance, the more the idea exhausted him. He remained standing instead, staring absently out the window into the rectangle of sun filled sky visible though the speckled glass. </p><p>Jefferson was also right about the question. The thought meandered through his mind and settled there, drifting contentedly in circles. Of course it mattered where you were from. The fact followed you around like a shadow; growing larger the more you tried to escape from it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is from Auden's poem 'Funeral Blues'</p><p>Let me know what you think! much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. wise and cynical as hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which steps are taken on the bridge between them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! thank you to everyone who commented last chapter, you all made me impossibly happy and so here is another chapter for you :) Sorry this one's a bit slow, it'll pick up soon!</p><p>As always, please keep talking to me and let me know what you think! </p><p>p.s i just re-read the first chapter and can't believe how shitty it is - sorry to put you through that ahh. I'll edit it when i get the chance I promise x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When John pushed open the door later that evening he was back at his desk, his mind empty and clear. He’d shoved everything away like he always did. Like he always would. </p><p>Briefly, he’d considered going back to get his books but figured there would probably be another class in the room by now. Also, it was a hell of a walk and he could just as easily drop by on the way to class tomorrow. Despite not having any of his notes, he’d started the essay set in the tutorial that morning, and had laid out both arguments for their debate; unbiased and strong. To hell with collaboration. If Jefferson didn’t agree with his points, so be it. He didn’t have the energy to argue with him anymore. </p><p> </p><p>He turned in his seat as the door opened. </p><p>“What! Not in the library? It’s a miracle!” John put a hand to his mouth in mock astonishment. </p><p> </p><p>Lafayette pushed his way into the room carrying a small bundle in one hand and a satchel in the other. </p><p>“Ah, why do you have to be unpredictable, ami, eh? Hercules went to the library to fetch you.” He paused, then muttered, “he’d going to be there for hours now.”</p><p> </p><p>Alexander yawned and closed his books before stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders cracked ominously, and John winced in sympathy as he threw himself onto his bed. Lafayette dumped the satchel down next to him before waving what appeared to be a bunch of napkins at Alexander. “Look, I brought you pizza.”</p><p>He grinned. “Aw, and you pretend not to care about anyone.”</p><p>Lafayette glowered at him, grumbling. “I wouldn’t have to if you knew how to feed yourself.”</p><p>“Yo,” John interjected, already digging through the satchel. “You eat that and then we’re all getting drunk and Hercules can make us feel hopelessly lonely and tell us about English girl. Louise. Or Liz. Or whatever her name is.” </p><p>He produced a bottle of clear liquid, popped open the cap and took a swig, grimacing before passing it down to Lafayette who had seated himself on the floor, his back pressed to the leg of John’s bed. </p><p> </p><p>Alexander bit into the pizza, hiding a grin. John was the biggest lightweight he knew, and he predicted John would take five more swallows before he was a clingy giggling mess. Not that he was any better. Come to think of it, the only one out of the four of them who could actually stay moderately decent was Hercules. </p><p>“Ehh,” Lafayette scoffed as he took a dainty sip. “We’re better off by ourselves.”</p><p>John arched an eyebrow teasingly; “yes, and I’ll remind you of that the next time you cry about the fact that there are no French girls here.” </p><p>“Moi?” He had the decency to look slightly affronted. “I never cry.”</p><p>“Of course, darling.” Hamilton laughed, finishing off the slice and stretching across to grab the bottle from Lafayette. </p><p> </p><p>The door opened and a disgruntled Hercules sidled in, throwing up his hands when he saw Alexander. “For fuck’s sake!”</p><p>Alexander grinned, shrugging. “I live to deceive.”</p><p>“Clearly,” Hercules grumbled, dropping onto Alexander’s bed and taking the bottle. There was a short moment of silence in which they all looked at him. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Well, are you going to start talking or are we all just getting drunk for no reason?”</p><p>John eyed Lafayette, “no reason is still a reason, you know.”</p><p>Reaching out for the bottle again, Lafayette tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Oui, c’est vrai.” </p><p> </p><p>By the time Hercules had finished telling them how he had met Elizabeth, they had all found their way to the floor and were sitting beside a small row of empty bottles. John’s head was tilted back against the covers and he was laughing absently, staring vaguely at a spot on the ceiling. A tear rolled down his cheek and his face fell mid-laugh. </p><p>“My thoughts exactly,” Lafayette muttered, glancing over at him.</p><p> </p><p>The room tilted slightly every time Hamilton blinked his eyes open. Mis-conjoined thoughts meandered lazily through his mind. Maybe he had his opinion of the whole soulmates thing completely wrong. Across from him, Hercules, the only one who still resembled someone sober adjacent, was smiling in quiet content. Alexander wanted to be that happy. He wanted someone to make him that happy. He was struck by the sudden mad desire to go running around the dorms shirtless and knock on every door until he found someone who recognised his tattoos. </p><p>He ran a finger over the latest one, the first after quiet a long period of nothing; a small open jam jar on the inside of his wrist. Maybe he should try more, like the rest of the world seemed to be. Go out. Stop snapping at everyone. Not study so much. He let out a short, involuntary laugh. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. </p><p> </p><p>But what about in a couple of years, what would happen to him then? Now he was alright; he had these idiots, and Eliza. But eventually they would all find their soulmates. Lafayette would move back to France, Hercules already had his, and John was so lovable he would find someone quicker than Alexander could say “I’m going to end up alone.” He wasn’t naïve enough to think that nothing was going to change. Even if they didn’t end up meeting their soulmates, they all had their families. </p><p>The people in his life appeared in his minds eye, growing like plums on a tree. Standing below them, he watched the branches stretching higher and higher until every plum was out of his reach. And, he reminded himself, Jefferson’s words floating back to him, it wasn’t like he had a family either. </p><p>His life unfurled before him; expansive and lonely. At least, he thought absently, it won’t be very long. </p><p> </p><p>“Mon petit chou.”</p><p>Alexander looked up as Lafayette crawled across the floor to sit beside him. It was darker now, and someone had turned on the desk lamp so the room was honeyed. Hercules was sitting beside John on his bed, both of them pouring meticulously over the brightly coloured squiggles that made up the tattoos on his arm. Alexander found himself staring at them with a slight pang of jealousy. </p><p>Lafayette’s shoulder brushed his. “What is on your mind, hmm?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he mumbled, wondering how much more alcohol it would take to make him feel better. </p><p>“Ami, don’t patronise me.” Lafayette’s words blurred together slightly, his accent stronger than ever. “You think I do not know you?”</p><p>“Really, it’s nothing.” Alexander swivelled his head so his cheek was pressed against his bed cover and he could face Lafayette. “It’s just something someone said.” He paused, shrugging. “It only really bothers me because it’s true.”</p><p>“Are you going to tell me, or make me guess?”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” he repeated. “We were having a go at each other and I was going on about his family, and then he said at least he has one.” </p><p> </p><p>The words stuck in his throat; childish and trivial. </p><p>“Who said it?” Lafayette’s expression was unreadable. </p><p>“Uh. Jefferson?” Who else, honestly. </p><p>Instead of rolling his eyes like he normally did when Alexander complained yet again that ‘Jefferson said this…’ Lafayette frowned. </p><p>“He said that?”</p><p>“Yeah, but it’s true, so, you know. Whatever.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe it. You two haven’t agreed on anything, not a single thing, and yet you choose to defend him on this?”</p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I already told you. Normally the things he says are fucking stupid. He was just stating facts here.” </p><p> </p><p>As soon as he’d actually heard himself say it, he had realised how ridiculous it was to dwell on. They’d both said some things. So what? He couldn’t remember a time when they’d actually had a conversation where there hadn’t been at least one insult thrown in, petty or otherwise. It’s what they did to each other. He couldn’t understand why he’d made such a big deal about it before, and now why Lafayette was taking it so seriously. </p><p>Lafayette opened his mouth to respond, but a muffled sob broke through the conversation. Simultaneously their heads swivelled in the direction of John, whose face was streaked with tears for the second time that night. </p><p>“I swear I said nothing.” Hercules, trying and failing to hide his grin, was stroking the top of John’s head in the way a mother would pet her child after a particularly petty outburst. </p><p>John choked on his tears, sniffing. “I’m going to die alone!”</p><p>“Pathetic.” Lafayette shook his head. “Drink more, you’ll feel better.”</p><p>Alexander reached for another bottle, dimly acknowledging in some distant and muted section of his brain that he would most likely regret it later, but reasoned that he couldn’t do any more damage than he had already. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He did, as it turns out, regret it. He spent the next day hung-over, and the following two trying to make up for it. By the time Friday rolled around, he’d forgotten about the debate class until he was following John down a corridor after their humanities lecture, and he asked Alexander where the hell he thought he was going. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered with a groan, and turned to head back the way they’d just come. </p><p> </p><p>He reached the room before class had started, and took the same seat by the door after checking that Jefferson wasn’t occupying the one next to it this time. He listened to the pair who got called up first, quietly pulling apart their argument in his notebook before the professor switched the fifth year student arguing against them, and called his name. </p><p>“Hamilton, Jefferson – you’re up. Please debate against the case.”</p><p> </p><p>He had been expecting this. Fate had fucked him over too many times for him not to expect it. But it was fine. What he needed was to pass, not more arguments. He could be mature. For once.</p><p> </p><p>Standing, he walked to the desk in the middle of the room and placed his notes in front of him, feeling the glare of Jefferson’s eyes as he kept his head bent towards the desk. </p><p>“Would you like to start?” He turned and gave him a sickly sweet smile he somehow managed not to turn into a grimace. “I’ll follow off whatever you put forward.” His dignity gave him the middle finger, and threw itself out the window. </p><p> </p><p>Jefferson shot him a look of shocked disbelief. Alexander held his gaze until his expression shifted very slightly into something like resignation. He turned to the fifth year opposite them, took a breath, and began to talk. Alexander listened, shuffling through his notes until he found a rebuttal point that would effectively counter the argument the fifth year was using to dismantle Jefferson’s first point. </p><p>Despite whatever people thought of him, and whatever Jefferson believed, he was not purposely difficult. Yes, he had opinions, yes, some of them were controversial, and yes, he liked to be right. But, he tried to justify to himself, that didn’t make him a bad person. He was not so arrogant that he refused to admit that Jefferson was intelligent. Sure he was a self-aggrandised bastard, but if a pass meant keeping his mouth shut then he could do that. Besides, it was only for a couple of hours a week. </p><p> </p><p>They won the case. Alexander could feel Jefferson watching him again, but this time refused to meet his eye. He did have his limits. The professor handed out their next arguments and dismissed the class. Gathering up his things, he turned to go, congratulating himself for actually leaving class on time for once. </p><p>“Hamilton.”</p><p>Or not. Some things never change.<br/>
He turned. “What.”</p><p>Jefferson opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it again. Alexander resisted the urge to snap him. Thinking he was probably wondering when to prepare for their next debate, he sighed. It was Saturday tomorrow. Normally he only had to stomach Jefferson during the week. </p><p>“I’ll be in the library all tomorrow morning.” He offered reluctantly. “Find me whenever.”</p><p>The last of the class filed out, leaving them alone. Again, he thought, disgruntled. </p><p> </p><p>“No. Uh.” Jefferson looked uncomfortable, his gaze shifting from Alexander’s face to stare at the messy bundle of books and papers clutched in his arms. Even in his discomfort, he managed to sound impossibly aloof. “I’m – I just wanted to say. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Alexander stared; now that he had not seen coming. He wondered if they would still be here if they had lost the debate. Perhaps this was out of guilt. Or someone had told him to. Lafayette, probably.<br/>
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s fine.” </p><p>He turned to go. </p><p> </p><p>“No, wait.” Pulling him back. “I, uh. I mean it.” He looked as though he had to force the words out of his throat. Still, Alexander could appreciate the sentiment, sincere or not. </p><p>“Okay.” He met Jefferson’s eyes briefly, didn’t like the emptiness he found there and looked away again. “It’s just an insult. That is, you know, what we do to each other.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Jefferson nodded, awkwardly. “Right.” </p><p>Something was amiss and it was making Alexander twitchy and nervous. He decided he was much more comfortable when they were yelling at each other. At least he knew what to expect. And besides, when Jefferson’s face was contorted with spite it was easier to forget how attractive he was. </p><p>He could feel something between them disintegrating slowly onto the floor and wondered, suddenly panicked, how the hell he was going to rebuild it. </p><p>Unable to stand the silence that sat between them, he nodded curtly in Jefferson’s general direction then turned and walked out of the classroom, wondering why it felt like he had been holding his breath.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from Sylvia Plath's 'The Bell Jar.' Read it, it's hilarious. Everyone disagrees with me, but it really is. Also, I borrowed her tree metaphor because it's pure ingenuity. </p><p>Anyway, do you have any predictions on what will happen next? Let me know I'd love to hear them! </p><p>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. to be, or not to be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Boredom and a game.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello here's another chapter sorry, it's unedited but I'll do that later. Also I know absolutely nothing of French so everything here is just straight from google translate, meaning mistakes are inevitable. Sorry!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He had already been in the library for two and a half hours when Jefferson slapped his books lightly down on the table and took a seat next to him. He was halfway through an essay he was struggling with for law, having made the executive decision not to even bother thinking about the debate points. He’d glanced over the paper and after seeing the notes at the top of the page instructing them to choose a side this time, had put it away without a second thought. He wasn’t going to start an argument in the library only to get kicked out. The librarian actually liked him. Something he couldn’t testify about most people. He figured he’d just keep his mouth shut and go with whichever side Jefferson decided was good enough for his privileged ass. The very idea made him want to throw himself out of the library window. </p><p> </p><p>Ignoring Jefferson, he kept writing, wanting to get down his train of thought. </p><p>“How long have you been here?”</p><p>He gritted his teeth. Couldn’t the fucker keep quiet for two seconds? He put his pen down mid-sentence, knowing he’d get nothing more done now. </p><p>“A while.” He stacked up his books, pushed them to the side and pulled the paper with their question towards him. Better to get it over with as quickly as possible. </p><p>Jefferson didn’t seem to be working off the same idea of speed. </p><p>“Did you even eat?”</p><p>“Nah.” He dismissed it. “I can eat later.” In his hierarchy of priorities, food came pretty far down on the list. He nudged the question towards Jefferson slightly in a silent reminder of the purpose of their meeting. </p><p>Jefferson said nothing, and bent his head over the page to read. The question was simple: ‘You should not dedicate your life to the search of your soulmate.’</p><p>Alexander’s stomach sank to somewhere his navel, and he fought with some difficulty the urge to bang his head against the desk. Everyone disagreed with his standpoint on this. And Jefferson thought everything he’d ever uttered was rubbish. He couldn’t even imagine what type of bullshit ideas Jefferson, of all people, would have on this. </p><p>He would just have to suck it up and deal it. It’s just for a grade, he told himself. He wasn’t totally incapable of keeping his mouth shut. </p><p>Beside him, Jefferson shifted slightly. “Well. What do you think?”</p><p>He prepared himself for the inevitable. “A bunch of shit, according to you.”</p><p>“True.” Jefferson gazed at him steadily until he relented and sighed. </p><p>“Well, uh. I agree.”</p><p>Jefferson raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise and he hurried on, wanting to shut him up before he’d opened his mouth. “But I get that most people think that soulmates are the be all and end all, so I can do against. It’ll probably be easier that way anyway.” </p><p>He wondered if he’d ever been so accommodating in all his life. For a second, he felt slightly ashamed of how much a pass meant to him. Well, he thought grimly, we don’t all have the choice.</p><p>Jefferson was frowning at the page. “No,” he said slowly, brows furrowed. “We did my side last time.” </p><p>Alexander’s gaze flew to him, astonished. He was actually being reasonable on this? Maybe he should move on from the selfish belief that he was the only one in the class who was happy to sacrifice his dignity just for a grade. Even so. He sat in shocked silence for a moment trying to process this dramatic personality switch. </p><p>Jefferson looked as confused as Alexander felt. “Also. I – uh, I actually agree with you.” His eyebrows narrowed further until the frown had morphed into mild disgust. </p><p>“I’m sorry, what?” </p><p>Jefferson glanced at him. </p><p>“Sorry, I must have gotten that wrong. Did you just say you agreed? With me? Why Thomas!” He pouted. Disbelief was making him ramble. “I’m honoured. And here I was thinking that was below you. You should really go back to your roots though – acquiescence doesn’t suit you much.”</p><p>Jefferson raised a cool eyebrow. “Are you quite finished?”</p><p>About to rattle on, Alexander closed his mouth with a snap. “For now.”</p><p>“So.” Jefferson opened his book and took out a pen. </p><p>“Well,” he began, mind still reeling at the revelation. “Of course they’re going to start with the obvious.”</p><p>Jefferson nodded, his hair falling into his eyes as he bent down to write; ‘without a soulmate, you will die.’ </p><p>“We can expand on that later,” he muttered when he caught Alexander’s raised eyebrows. </p><p>Alexander nodded, continuing; “however, lots of people spend their entire lives looking, and still never actually find them.” He paused. “Isn’t it, what? Like half of the population?”</p><p>“Two thirds, actually.” Jefferson was still scribbling. Watching him, Alexander wondered if they’d ever gone so long without snapping at each other. It was bound to happen at some point. And he still wasn’t ruling out the window option as a last resort. </p><p>“Exactly. What a waste. If you only have thirty years, or forty, or whatever you make it to -”</p><p>“Let’s say thirty-five to be on the safe side and research it later.” </p><p>“Right – if you only have thirty-five, fine. At least spend it doing something worthwhile, rather than wasting it away looking for someone so you can start to live.”</p><p>“And don’t forget there’s the chance of rejection.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He dismissed it easily. “That’s so rare though.”</p><p>“So?” Jefferson’s jaw was set. “It still happens.”</p><p>“Well, they’re going to say that it’s worth the risk.”</p><p>“It’s not.”</p><p>“Fine, but what’s our reasoning?”</p><p>“It’s just not worth it.” Jefferson glared at him. </p><p>“That’s not a justification!” He was struck by a sudden though. “What, have you been rejected or something?”</p><p>Jefferson shot him a look of pure condescension. “No.” </p><p>“Oh, sorry!” He raised his hands in a pretence of sincerity. “I forgot everyone practically queues up for the chance to get with you.” </p><p>Gazing at him steadily, Jefferson raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He didn’t even have the decency to look slightly ashamed. “Not everyone.” </p><p>“Ah, yes, I am sorry. There’s the grand total of me, the queen of England, and the librarian.” </p><p>Jefferson looked as though he was trying very hard to hide a smile. “Yeah, sounds about right.”<br/>
Then he smirked; “you really are missing out, you know.”</p><p>The nerve of the fucker. </p><p>“You arrogant fuckwit.” He said primly, pursing his lips and trying, without success, to inject some malice into the insult. </p><p>“The jokes really on you.” </p><p>“Go fuck yourself.” </p><p>Jefferson grinned wickedly. Alexander knew what he was about to say and hated him for it, throwing out a badly aimed slap that landed on his bicep. His hand landed on hard muscle and he reached out again, but Jefferson ducked. He tried not to feel too disappointed. </p><p>“I would. But, you know, there are people queuing up to do that for me.” </p><p>“Screw you. Your head couldn’t get bigger if you tried.”</p><p>Jefferson’s eyes were dancing. “It really couldn’t.” </p><p>Alexander bit into his lip, wondering why he was struggling so hard not to smile, and resisted the intense urge to hit him again. He jabbed the page they had both neglected instead. “Write.” </p><p>“If you say so.” Jefferson threw him an open grin that was so genuine Alexander was momentarily stunned. No wonder everyone fawned over him – one smile was enough to make Alexander a little light headed. </p><p> </p><p>Two hours later, they had their points and rebuttals mapped out and had somehow made it though without yelling at each other. It was some kind of record. Alexander had begun to wonder if maybe they were both having an off day. He wasn’t even sure how to act. Several times he’d considered starting an argument just to get things back to normal. But, he reasoned, that would be pretty counter productive. He had to admit they were more likely to do better if they weren’t arguing. It was actually easier than he thought it would be – although to be fair, it had been Jefferson who originally initiated their argumentative relationship. </p><p>If Jefferson was willing to be civil for the sake of the class, even if it was just out of guilt for what he said before, then Alexander was willing to take it. It boiled down to the fact that he needed to pass. Outside of debating; well, they’d probably go back to screaming at each other. Alexander was perfectly happy with that. </p><p>One thing, however, was bothering him. So far, he hadn’t met another person who had agreed with his stance on soulmates. Even Eliza, who put her orphanage above everything else, had once confessed that her true dream was to find someone who would want to do it with her. </p><p>Sure, he and Jefferson probably had completely different reasons for their opinion, but Alexander had to confess he was curious. Why would Jefferson, who had everything in the world – or who at least acted like he did – so adamantly refuse a search that most dedicated their entire lives to. </p><p>He wondered briefly if something had happened. Perhaps Jefferson was lying, and he actually had been rejected – but that seemed unlikely. He had seen Jefferson make girls blush just by glancing in their direction. And he wasn’t blind – if he wasn’t such as arrogant asshole, Alexander could consent to acknowledge that he would be hard to resist. But still… he realised he had never actually seen one of Jefferson’s tattoos. Sure, that was the same with a lot of people – but that was usually because their tattoos were in places normally covered; crawling up their back or shoulders, like his were. He tried to think of a time when he hadn’t seen Jefferson wearing long sleeves and realised that he couldn’t. Which was weird in itself – it did get pretty hot in the summer, even if the building was cooled by the sandstone walls. Either he was purposefully hiding his tattoos because he didn’t want his soulmate – or anyone else for that matter – to see them, or he had already met his soulmate and they didn’t want him. The thought puzzled him, and he sat in musing silence until Jefferson cleared his throat. </p><p>He looked up. </p><p>Jefferson had pushed his chair back and was closing his book. “I think we should be good with that, right?”<br/>
“Right.” He agreed absently, nodding as he stretched. “If we think of anything else we can always add it in.” </p><p>Fuck, he was tired. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and wondered if there would be anything left over from lunch. It was almost half two, so probably not. He began to pull out the book of Auden’s poems towards him, thinking he may as well get started on his next essay. </p><p>“Sure.” Jefferson stood and gathered his things. Giving him a nod, Jefferson turned to go, and Alexander wondered why he suddenly didn’t want him to. Maybe it was because this was probably the last time they would ever share a civil conversation. </p><p>“Hey, I was wondering,” Jefferson turned back, eyebrows raised questioningly, and Alexander cursed himself for being unable to keep his mouth shut, knowing what he had been about to ask would set their momentary equilibrium up in flames. He decided to hell with it. </p><p>“I was just wondering why.” </p><p>Jefferson shook his head, confused. “Why what?”</p><p>“Why you don’t want to look for your soulmate? It’s just that most people do, so I just sort of… well, wondered.” He trailed off. </p><p>Jefferson gazed at him for a moment. He shrugged, “It’s complicated.” </p><p>Alexander gave a non committal jerk of the head. If he was honest, he hadn’t really been expecting an answer. </p><p>“Why don’t you?”</p><p>Because even if he found his soulmate, they’d never want him. Mirroring Jefferson, he shrugged. “It’s complicated.” </p><p>It wasn’t, actually. It was exceptionally simple. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Monday came and went without much preamble, and Alexander was walking up the steps for his progressive human rights lecture that he shared with Lafayette wondering why his stomach was knotting nervously. It was only when he rounded the corner and saw Jefferson leaning against the wall outside the lecture hall, talking to a girl Alexander vaguely recognised as Martha, that he realised. This was the first time he would be seeing Jefferson outside of debate. Which, he told himself sternly, meant nothing.</p><p>Except that now he had absolutely no idea how to act around him. Would they just go back to their usual hostile dynamic? He spotted Lafayette sitting at the end of a row halfway up the theatre seats and started to climb up towards him, wondering if he was just being a monumental idiot. Surely Jefferson wasn’t overthinking it this much. He probably hadn’t spared Alexander a second thought since he had left the library. Which is exactly the attitude he should have. Alexander dropped into the seat beside Lafayette, deciding that he would just wait for Jefferson to give the first insult, and he would just roll off that. It was what he normally did, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Lafayette leaned his arm on the rest between them. “You missed the announcement.”</p><p>“What!” He replied, affronted. “I’m early.”</p><p>Lafayette snorted. “Congratulations. But oui, we have a guest lecturer today – some guy who graduated last year is coming to talk about his experience out of college blah, blah.” He yawned widely and Alexander frowned. </p><p>“That should be really interesting though.” </p><p>“Hardly, sugar, but then again, you would take notes from a brick wall if it talked for long enough.”</p><p>“Fuck you, I would not!” He glanced up as Jefferson appeared beside them and flashed Lafayette a smile. Alexander rolled his eyes, wondering if he practiced it in front of a mirror. Knowing Jefferson, he probably did. </p><p>Automatically he made a move to get up and slide into the seat next to him, seeing as Lafayette was in the last seat of the row, but Jefferson was already inching around him, murmuring something in French as he passed. He dropped into the seat beside Alexander, who froze halfway out of his own. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?” He hissed. </p><p>Jefferson stared at him, deadpan. “Well, this lecture is two hours long, you know. I’d rather not spend it standing.” </p><p>“I could’ve moved.”</p><p>“Hamilton.” He sounded like he was talking to a child. “Get the fuck over yourself.” </p><p>He shuffled back into his seat, slightly affronted. “Can’t you just piss off and find Martha. Or whoever you’ve got hanging off your arm this time?”</p><p>“Ah, jealous?” Jefferson shot him a sly grin that Alexander returned with a look of disgust. </p><p>“Hardly.” He said primly. </p><p>Jefferson rolled his eyes. “I would, but sadly she’s not in this class. It’s a pity, really,” he smirked; “it is a long class, and think of all the things we could fill it wi-”</p><p>“You disgust me.” Alexander turned resolutely to face the front as the Professor called attention. </p><p>“As I mentioned previously, we have a guest lecturer today.” He raised his voice so that it carried throughout the theatre. “Aaron Burr graduated last year, and has since joined a prestigious law firm in the city. He’ll be back a couple more times throughout this semester to discuss some of his experiences with clients, etcetera. Please give him your full attention for the time we have today, and there will be a short pause for questions at the end.” </p><p> </p><p>Alexander straightened in his seat, pulling out an eager pen as Burr introduced himself, and begin to describe his experience within the law firm. After around ten minutes, however, he had dropped his pen and was staring down at Burr with something like disgust. The man had been talking non stop yet hadn’t managed to say a single thing of relevance. Alexander wondered if he’d ever met anyone so dull in his life. He glanced to his right at Lafayette, who had his chin resting on his chest and his eyes shut. </p><p>This wouldn’t be typical: normally Lafayette had an avid attentiveness that almost matched Alexander’s, except that he was starting to believe that Burr had the power to put the entire world to sleep. </p><p>Hearing a derisive snort to his left, he turned. Jefferson was slumped back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and was staring down at Burr disbelievingly. </p><p>“What?” He didn’t even bother to lower his voice. Behind them, a couple had started an argument and had obviously never heard the meaning of a whisper. </p><p>“Did you head what he just said?”</p><p>“Er, no? I’ve kind of stopped listening.” </p><p>Instead of raising his eyebrows and spitting out a scornful remark on his inattentiveness, Jefferson shot him a small grin. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners and Alexander couldn’t help but notice that it only added to his attractiveness. </p><p>“Smart choice.” He shook his head, and a lock of hair flopped into his face. Alexander realised that it did that a lot, and wondered absently why Jefferson didn’t just invest in some hair ties. </p><p>“I’ve never actually heard someone who can keep jabbering about something without actually offering a single opinion. Seriously, listen to this guy. How can anyone be so passive.”</p><p>Alexander shrugged. “I would’ve thought that suited you.” </p><p>Jefferson raised his eyebrows questioningly. </p><p>“Yeah, more people to agree with whatever you say.” He was teasing, but Jefferson’s gaze dropped. </p><p>“What’s the good in that? It would just get boring; nothing to ever change your mind.”</p><p>Alexander made a non-committal noise of assent in the back of his throat, turning to watch Burr as he walked a small path round the lectern at the front of the theatre when he was struck by a sudden thought. Had Jefferson actually been arguing with him this entire time for the sake of intellect? Because he liked having his opinions challenged? Although, he reminded himself, he didn’t exactly challenge his opinions per say; more like just repeatedly told him everything he said was shit, occasionally throwing a comment about his arrogance in there for good measure. </p><p>So really, Jefferson probably argued with him because he thought Alexander was beneath him. He wasn’t from old money and he didn’t have some legacy waiting for him to carry on his shoulders. Jefferson most likely thought that he was only at Princeton as a pity acceptance, rather than one merited from intellect. </p><p> </p><p>He sunk back, arms resting on the small sliding desk attached to his chair, and prepared to spend the next hour or so in utter boredom. Briefly he considered pulling out his poetry book; it was he one allowance of sentimentality, and he carried it everywhere. Poetry was one of the few things he could remember about his mother; they didn’t have many things at their disposal when he was young, so she read poetry to him from the one book they owned. He’d lost the book around six years ago – kicked out of the place he’d been staying at without warning. He’d been unprepared for the overwhelming sense of loss that had engulfed him; even though he told himself it was just a book, nothing to get attached to, the one he’d bought in replacement had never felt quite the same. He still pulled it out, however, reading with his mothers voice dimly in his ears. </p><p>He was about to dig through his bag to get it, when he thought that Jefferson might laugh at him, and so stopped, wondering instead if he should start working on another assignment. </p><p>Beside him, he felt Jefferson shift slightly, then nudge his knee with his own. Alexander looked quizzically sideways and saw that Jefferson had slid a small piece of paper across his desk. He glanced at it quickly, and then stared. Jefferson had drawn up a box of noughts and crosses. He gawked at it disbelievingly for a moment longer then turned and caught Jefferson’s eye. </p><p>He shrugged his shoulders slightly in defence, muttering, “I really don’t think you understand the absolution of my boredom right now.”</p><p>Alexander opened his mouth to respond, but stopped mid way. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his time. He drew a quick circle in the middle square, then pushed the paper over to the left for Jefferson. </p><p> </p><p>Soon, they were both bent over the desk, and Alexander had brought out his notebook for fresh paper when theirs had been covered. The page was littered with the remnants of a dozen hasty games, and in the top right hand corner was a small, wonky tally. </p><p>Burr stopped speaking – finally  - questions were asked, the lecture ended and the room dismissed and still neither had looked up. Lafayette stood and whacked Alexander over the head with his book. </p><p>“If you cared to pay attention, sunshine, you’ll see that we’ve been released from hell.”</p><p>Alexander rubbed the top of his head and glowered reproachfully up at him. “Says you. Sleep well, did we?”</p><p>Lafayette grinned, and Alexander closed his book with a sigh, reaching down for his bag.</p><p>
  <i>“Honte, j’aurais dû rester éveillé pour voir ce qui se passé ici.” </i>
Lafayette shot Jefferson a wicked grin as they started to make their way down the steps of the theatre. 
</p><p><i>“Casse toi, Minou.” </i><br/>
Behind him, Jefferson sounded like he was trying to hide a smile.</p><p>Alexander wallowed for a moment in the annoyance that he didn’t understand a single word of French, and wondered if he could justify fitting in yet another class just to get one up on Jefferson. The only other language he could understand was Spanish, and so far he hadn’t encountered a single Spanish speaking person here. Well, not one that he could stand, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>They parted ways as they reached the corridor, and Jefferson was immediately accosted by James Madison, who seemed to be wherever Jefferson was and said Spanish speaker that Alexander couldn’t stand. </p><p>Lafayette followed him down the corridor. </p><p>“You know, mon ami, I’m proud of you. I think that was the longest time you’ve both gone without rattling my ears with your ridiculous yelling.”</p><p>Alexander grunted. “I think he’s only humouring me because he feels guilty for what he said before.” </p><p>It was the only explanation he could think of. Alexander couldn’t understand why; he’d already told him that it was fine, but maybe Jefferson felt like he owed Alexander somehow. He knew he should be bothered by the fact that they suddenly appeared to be on speaking terms, but for some reason he didn’t mind. The lecture had gone surprisingly quickly, despite the fact that he hadn’t learnt a single thing. </p><p>The thought almost shocked him. Was he really admitting that Jefferson was actually tolerable, hell, that he had been nice? Everyone else seemed to think that he was. What the hell had happened to his asshole personality? He wondered if maybe he had a hidden agenda. But would it be the worst thing ever if they didn’t spend every second yelling at each other? Normally, people like Jefferson were people he gravitated towards; intelligent, opinionated, charismatic. The trouble was he was also rich and pompous and basically, just a dick. Although, Alexander hadn’t felt any of that in the past few days. </p><p>And there was something about him that Alexander couldn’t quite put his finger on. He also, much as it pained him to admit, sort of liked the feeling he got from being on the receiving end of Jefferson’s smile. Besides, it would be childish of him to start needless arguments. He could be mature – for once – and go along with whatever the hell was happening. Pass the debate class. Have a relatively peaceful semester. And they could go back to their old abrasion whenever Jefferson got bored of the neutrality and cared to reinitiate it. </p><p> </p><p>Beside him, Lafayette shrugged. “If you say so.”</p><p>He blew a kiss then turned at a fork in the corridor, and continued to the left while Alexander turned into his classroom for English, moving into a spare seat in the third row when he couldn’t spot John. </p><p>He opened his notebook, smiling briefly when he saw the scattered noughts and crosses boxes before turning to a fresh page and digging in his bag for a pen, knowing that he would actually hear something worth taking note of in this class.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'</p><p>As always don't be shy to drop a comment and let me know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a slip of a hair tie and forbidden fruit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who's leaving comments, they all make me so happy :) this is for everyone who said they were looking forward to the next chapter, I really hope you like it oh my! </p><p>as always don't forget to let me know what you think x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A couple of days later, it was almost midnight when Alexander finally raised his head from the mound of books he’d been buried in. Glancing at the clock, he stretched and decided it was probably time to give it a rest for the night. He’d been in the library since four that afternoon, trying to get trough some research for a comparative essay on Tacitus and Dio for his history elective. The two had such contradictory yet simultaneously disparaging views on women that Alexander’s head ached from shaking it in distaste. For sure, in their contemporary periods it was the acceptable, and even expected perspective - but still.</p><p>The librarian - an old and weathered motherly woman who had long since given up trying to chivvy Alexander out at a respectable hour – had already left, giving him instructions to lock up when he stopped for the night. He sighed, trying his best to ignore the throbbing in his temples and began to pile his books on top of each other. He was making his way out of the history section when he paused at the warm glow of a lamp between the shelves, wondering who else would possibly still be here at this time of night. It was no where near finals yet so people weren’t manically cramming, and normally everyone left long before he did.</p><p>He walked to the end of the row the light was emanating from and peered blearily down it only to see, with a slight start of surprise, Jefferson; head bent low over a book. Surrounded by manuscripts and scattered papers and a slight aura of despair, he looked as though he had been there for a while.</p><p> </p><p>Alexander dithered for a moment, hidden behind a shelf, but then his curiosity got the better of him and he made his way down the row. He plonked himself unceremoniously down on the desk next to a stack of books, shimmying back until his legs were dangling off the floor and he could lean against the shelf behind him.</p><p>Jefferson looked up warily, eyes slightly startled and unseeing. They widened a fraction when he focused on Alexander.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” His voice was slightly husky from lack of use.</p><p>“I could ask you the same.”</p><p>Jefferson looked as tired as Alexander felt. He pushed a hand through his hair then rolled his shoulders in a small, clearly futile attempt to rouse himself.</p><p>He gestured loosely to the haphazard mess around him. “I have an essay I have to finish by tomorrow for music and it’s proving harder than I thought to research.”</p><p>The knowledge of this momentarily threw him. “You take music?”</p><p>“Yeah.” The look Jefferson shot him was quizzical, almost defensive. “Why, is that surprising?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Alexander paused, considering. He’d never really thought that Jefferson would be the type to go after a creative subject. But then again, he <i>was</i> taking poetry. And besides, a lot of the things he’d been doing lately were surprising. Alexander wondered briefly if he’d wasted a whole two years arguing with someone he might actually have a lot in common with. He brushed away the last thought.</p><p>“I guess law and music is just an interesting combination.”</p><p>Jefferson shrugged, and the movement caused his hair to flop into his face again. “Well, I do law because I have to, and music because I like it.”</p><p>Alexander was on the verge of biting out a scathing remark somewhere along the lines of; with money like his, he didn’t think Jefferson <i>had</i> to do anything, but held his tongue at the last second. What was the point, and besides he was really too tired to argue right now.</p><p>He shrugged instead and glanced down at Jefferson’s paper. “Are you nearly finished?”</p><p>Jefferson looked slightly pained. “Not really.”</p><p>Looking at him Alexander felt the twinges of what he recognised dimly as sympathy. He was well acquainted with the feeling of immeasurable tiredness.</p><p>“Do you, um, want any help?’ he offered hesitantly, not considering the fact that he knew even less of music than he did of French.</p><p>Jefferson gave him a small smile. “Nah. It’s okay. It should only take another hour or so.”</p><p>He dropped his head to the desk and was quiet for a minute. Alexander was starting to wonder if he had fallen asleep when he raised his head and peered wearily up at him.</p><p>“Did you want something?”</p><p>“Uh. No?”</p><p>“Well, you don’t have to stay you know.”</p><p>Absently it seemed, he raised an automatic hand to brush his hair from his face. Alexander watched as it fell almost immediately back into its previous position, the tight curls bouncing into place.</p><p>Dropping his books down on the bench beside him, Alexander slipped a spare tie from his wrist and leant across before he had even considered what he was doing.</p><p>He paused, slightly horror stricken upon catching sight of Jefferson’s confused expression. <i>Oh god, oh god, oh god.</i> His self-assurance began to seep out of him and he mentally added this to <i>things he should never again embark upon in the future.</i> Thinking it would make the situation even weirder if he pulled back now, he reached across the remaining space between them and scooped the curls up off Jefferson’s face, gathering his hair and securing it loosely with the tie. It wasn’t as coarse as he had imagined – not that he’d imagined what it would feel like at all, because he most definitely hadn’t.</p><p>He pulled back, wondering what the hell had come over him.</p><p>“Why did you do that?” Jefferson asked quietly.</p><p>Yes, excellent question.</p><p>He shrugged. “It kept falling in your face and it was pissing me off.”</p><p>Jefferson was giving him an odd, closed look he couldn’t decipher and it was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He shifted, reaching again for his books, mainly to stop his hands doing any other stupid things and to hide the blush he could feel filling his cheeks.</p><p>“When’s the class tomorrow?” He asked in a small attempt to change Jefferson’s expression into something that didn’t make his heart beat quite so fast.</p><p>“Uh.” Jefferson stared down at his page blankly for a second. “After lunch, I think.”</p><p>“Well then. Can’t you finish it tomorrow?”</p><p>Jefferson shook his head. “We have poetry tomorrow.”</p><p>“Yeah, but only for an hour.”</p><p>“True.” Jefferson was staring, a little disillusioned, around at all his papers. He leaned back, stifling a yawn. “I’m probably not going to get much more done, anyway.”</p><p>“Exactly.” Alexander pushed himself off the desk to emphasise his point. <i>“Vamonos.”</i></p><p>“Huh?” Jefferson glanced up at him, starting to stack up his books.</p><p>“Let’s go.” He began to walk slowly out of the row, weaving his way through the shelves in the direction of the exit, telling himself he was dawdling because he was tired, not because he was waiting for Jefferson to catch him up.</p><p>He did so at the doors, and Alexander paused to pull them shut, making sure they were locked before turning down the corridor.</p><p>They were quiet for a moment, the darkness soft and cool around them.</p><p>“Where did you learn Spanish?” Jefferson asked, his head bent as they walked.</p><p>Alexander was still trying to get accustomed to the fact that his accent, void of the usual malice and derision it usually held when directed at him, - a tone he had come to expect – was quite nice. It dipped, softly, around the assonance of words in a way he wasn’t used to, and he wondered, before he could stop himself, what it would sound like curved around his name. He brushed the thought away before it could take root. But hey, he reasoned, he was only curious. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with that.</p><p>“Uh.” He paused, suddenly hesitant to answer, not wanting to reopen the cavern of differences between them that only just seemed like it was starting to narrow.</p><p>“My mother spoke Spanish. English is sort of my second language, although,” he stopped, considering, “I did learn it really young, so maybe it still counts as a first.”</p><p> </p><p>They had started crossing the open ground between the dining hall and the dorm suits; the grass slightly wet with early morning dew. He sneaked a covert glance to his left, half expecting to find Jefferson rolling his eyes in practiced mockery, but his face was blank, shadowed only by the moonlight and a small frown.</p><p>His hair was still bundled into a precarious knot on the top of his head. Alexander stared at it dispassionately for a moment; he'd always been terrible at things like that, and he wondered absently if he should ask Lafayette to teach him to braid. Not that he was looking for more reasons to be touching Jefferson's hair, but, you never know - it could be a useful skill.</p><p>“I didn’t know that.”</p><p>For good reason, Alexander thought darkly, but shrugged it off. “Yeah, well. It’s not something I generally parade, especially considering the demographic of people who go here.”</p><p>“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”</p><p>Jefferson pushed open the door to their dorm suit and waited for Alexander to pass through before letting it hiss shut behind them as they started to climb the stairwell.</p><p>“Maybe.” He made a small noise of disagreement. “Have you not met the people who study here?”</p><p>“Fair.” Jefferson took a breath then said, “Well, for what it’s worth I don’t think it should make a difference.”</p><p>The sentiment, rather than warming him, only tickled at Alexander’s conscience. What was going on? Maybe Jefferson <i>had</i> been nice this entire time, and he himself had just been an asshole. He wouldn’t it past him, honestly. He tried to go over all the countless times that Jefferson had insulted him and wondered if they had all been simply in retaliation. They couldn’t possibly be. Maybe he’d just suffered a whack to the head over the summer. Or he’d met some girl who’d changed his mind about everything and he’d made the executive decision to be a Nice Guy.</p><p>He was too tired for all this crap, and was already sick of feeling unsettled and insecure. Normally, he knew exactly what he could expect from Jefferson, and now he didn’t know what to think.</p><p> </p><p>He stopped as they reached the second floor.</p><p>“Well, uh.” He tried to relax his shoulders, mentally pushing his restlessness under his foot and stamping it resolutely squashed.</p><p>“This is me.”</p><p>Jefferson nodded. “Thanks for, uh, making me leave.” He shot him a small, slightly bashful smile.</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander said automatically.</p><p>There was a beat, and Jefferson toed the ground. Alexander grappled with the boggling possibility that Jefferson might be just as nervous as he was.</p><p>He glanced up from whatever fascinating thing he’d been eyeing on the floor. “Well, anyway. Goodnight.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Alexander couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at a loss for something to say. Then softly, struck by a sudden inspiration; “Night Thomas.”</p><p>He turned to go, holding his breath, wondering if Jefferson would rise to the bate.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Hmm?” Alexander turned back, eyes widening innocently.</p><p>“Did you – what did you say?” A small line creased his forehead as Jefferson frowned.</p><p>“I said goodnight.” Alexander shot him a sweet smile.</p><p>“I – right.” Jefferson nodded slightly, then turned to go.</p><p> </p><p>Alexander walked down the corridor of his dorm, disgruntled at himself for even thinking he would be able to coerce Thomas so easily. Wait, Jefferson. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly horror struck. What if Jefferson read into that differently. What would he think? Alexander wondered if there was some unmentioned line prohibiting a first name basis that he had unintentionally crossed.</p><p>Quietly, he let himself into his room. Despite the slight chill, John was spread out on top of his sheet and snoring lightly. Alexander undressed silently in the dark and slipped under his own quilt, trying desperately to rationalise the panic that had gripped him.</p><p>He was being ridiculous. He would go right back to ‘Jefferson’ tomorrow and pretend nothing had happened. Which it hadn’t. He hated the fact that Jefferson was on his mind a little too frequently of late. Normally, he reserved his obsessive overthinking to essay deadlines, a thesis he had to support, the fear that if he ever did actually meet them, his soulmate was going to take one look at him and laugh in his face.</p><p> </p><p>He decided it was enough. He was content with worrying about those things. He did it so often, it was almost comforting. Besides, Jefferson definitely wasn’t wasting all this time worrying over him. They had just changed the dynamic of their relationship slightly, for, he reminded himself, purely educational purposes. They both shared the same interest; passing debate. That was all.</p><p>He hated, not for the first time, the fact that he was so insecure. If he had been more sure of himself, they would have probably started talking years ago. But he had been seventeen, and Jefferson was intelligent and attractive and had made his head real slightly, and he hadn’t known how to act. But that didn’t matter now, anyway.</p><p>There was only a few hours left until he had to get up for classes tomorrow. Pushing all Jefferson related thoughts from his mind, he rolled over and let John’s snores lull him into sleep.</p><p> </p><p>The term trundled on at a criminally slow pace, the amount of work steadily being piled on them. No one had really anticipated the increase in workload third year would bring, and on a number of occasions Alexander found that he wasn’t the last to leave the library at whatever ridiculous time in the morning.</p><p> </p><p>A week or so later, Alexander was at breakfast on Friday morning, wondering what the hell had made him think it would be a good idea to pick up finance on top of everything else he was already taking. He was already swamped as it was, and finance wasn’t even something he could write essays for. He was debating if he would be able to suffer through the Professor’s disappointment when he told him that he wanted to quit, when Jefferson dropped onto the bench beside him.</p><p>Although he was growing slightly more accustomed to this, the ingrained habit he had kindled over the past two years still crept up, and his back straightened defensively before he caught Jefferson’s amiable smile and relaxed. Over the past week the two had settled into something that could almost be termed a friendship, yet still Alexander found it hard to shake the feeling that Jefferson would go back to malice without warning.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey you,” he said, returning his smile. Rather than worrying every time he opened his mouth whether to try out ‘Thomas’ again, this time without a hidden agenda, Alexander had simply avoided saying his name altogether. Not his most mature decision, he knew, but he’d had worse.</p><p>John glanced over and jerked his head acknowledgement before continuing his conversation with Hercules that Alexander had long since tuned out of. The first time Jefferson had joined them without warning over a meal, John had simply raised his eyebrows at Lafayette and remained suspiciously silent. Alexander had waited for the questions, but when none came and everyone just continued as though nothing was amiss he had started to wonder if he was just being paranoid. Maybe he just needed to get the fuck over himself and stop overthinking everything.</p><p>Besides, he wasn’t complaining. He might even go so far as to admit that he enjoyed Jefferson – wait, Thomas’s – company, even if it made him nervous. It was only a matter of time before Thomas got bored of him, and realised that Alexander really wasn’t worth his time, so he may as well enjoy the attention while it lasted.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>He had obviously just showered, his hair still wet and smelling faintly of sandalwood and something that distinctly reminded Alexander of coconut. Actually, it smelled decidedly <i>good</i> and the wild, slightly giddy desire to lean over and burry his nose in it suddenly overwhelmed him. He choked on his toast, wondering what the hell had come over him and Thomas shot him a slightly alarmed look.</p><p>He ignored it, pushing himself up. “You ready to go?”</p><p>They had their debate class after breakfast, but Alexander was almost entirely sure that they wouldn’t be asked to debate today. There were still a couple of groups who hadn’t gone yet, and he doubted the professor would begin with the next lot of questions before everyone was done with their first.</p><p>He turned to say goodbye to the others but realised that no one was paying attention, so began weaving his way out of the hall with Thomas close behind him. He turned to him as soon as they got through the doors and found he was already watching him.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He shook his head. “Nothing.</p><p>Alexander watched as his gaze shifted, and followed its direction to see Martha running towards them. He rolled his eyes and kept walking as she threw herself at Thomas.</p><p>He was halfway up the next flight of stairs when he felt Thomas’s shoulder bump into his own and raised his eyebrows in surprise, wondering why he had left her so quickly.</p><p>Thomas ducked his head, and looked, if Alexander didn’t know any better, faintly embarrassed.</p><p>“Um. Sorry about that.”</p><p>“Why?” Alexander shrugged as they turned into the classroom. The first pair up to debate were already in the middle of the room, setting up their notes in preparation.</p><p>“Are you two dating?” he asked in spite of himself as they took seats. It struck him suddenly that if he had told himself three weeks ago that he would be willing sitting with Thomas Jefferson of all people, he would have told himself to get fucked.</p><p>“What? Uh. No.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t date, just fuck around.”</p><p>Thomas laughed quietly. “No, I would date. But we’re just friends. She -” he paused, shuffling in his chair so he was leaning back, head resting on the wall behind them. “She actually reminds me of you, a bit.”</p><p>“Huh?” Alexander flicked through his book to find a clear page.</p><p>“Yeah. You know – fiery.”</p><p>“Fiery?” He echoed, waggling his eyebrows before considering what a stupid idea that was and hastily dropping his expression. Glancing across, however, he saw a slight blush had crept into Thomas’s cheeks.</p><p>“You know what I mean -”</p><p>“I really don’t. Please, do elaborate.”</p><p>“Fuck you. You know; opinionated. Strong willed.”</p><p>“Ah. Yes.” Alexander turned to face the front as the professor cleared his throat. “Some of my more redeeming qualities.”</p><p>He sneaked a surreptitious glance to his left as the class was called to order and caught Thomas biting back a grin. He pushed down the small stab of victory it sent rising in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>The first debate went overtime; neither side was getting anywhere and Alexander could feel himself getting increasingly frustrated at their lack of vigour. Glancing up at the time, the professor opened the debate up to the rest of the class. Alexander put his hand up without thinking.</p><p>The professor turned to him, nodding in acknowledgement. Alexander opened his mouth just as Thomas pushed himself forward in his chair to lean his elbows on the desk. The same soft hint of coconut washed over him again, leaving him momentarily light headed.</p><p>“I – uh,” he stuttered, trying to recall what the fuck he had been about to say.</p><p>After waiting a beat the professor raised a cool eyebrow. “I’ll thank you for not wasting my time, Hamilton.”</p><p>As he turned to the next student, Thomas swivelled his head round, widening his eyes in a silent question. Alexander only glowered at him.</p><p>The class ended and the professor cut off the last speaker. “This is a good reflection of what you will face in the courts of law.” He said, pacing around the middle tables as everyone started shuffling through books and papers as they prepared to leave. “Not every case is going to be neatly resolved in the given time – in fact, they rarely are. For the sake of progress, however, we will move on to a new debate next lesson. I want an essay from each of you on my desk by Monday continuing and closing this debate.”</p><p>He dismissed them and Alexander stood. He was late for his next class. Grabbing his books from the desk, he turned to Thomas and offered a small smile.</p><p>“See you later.”</p><p>“Wait.” Thomas pushed himself off his seat and followed Alexander out of the classroom. The professor chivvied them away from the door so he could lock it before hurrying off down the corridor.</p><p>“Uh, which way are you headed?”</p><p>“Lecture theatre five.” He started walking, adding when he caught Thomas’s nonplussed expression; “it’s on the same floor as our lecture for law. Why?”</p><p>He shrugged. “Just wondered if we were going in the same direction.”</p><p>Alexander looked sideways at him. “And are we?”</p><p>“Ah,” he let out a slight laugh. “Technically not, but I can make a detour.”</p><p>His heart jittered a little. He brushed it off. As they climbed the stairs, he remembered suddenly. “Hey, are you going to the thing tonight?”</p><p>“Actually, I was meaning to ask you that.” They turned right out of the stairwell. “They’ve put it off for long enough, huh?”</p><p>“Right! Some crap about the professors knowing or something.”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “Like they haven’t known for years.”</p><p>“That’s what I said! People are stupid.”<br/>
He leant back against the wall next to the door of his lecture theatre, forgetting that he was already late.</p><p>“Says you.”</p><p>“Get fucked.” He considered sticking his tongue out for good measure, but stopped himself.</p><p>“Will do. Don’t you have a lecture?”</p><p>“Shit! Yes.” He jerked his back off the wall, wondering for a panicked moment how much he would have missed, and if Angelica might consent to lend him her notes. Considering the reason he was late, probably not. Angelica seemed to be the only other person who thought Thomas was less than brilliant. Apparently, they’d gotten into an argument halfway through first year – something about a backhand comment Thomas had made on women – and, two years later, neither had managed to get past it.</p><p>This was the only class Alexander shared with Angelica as she was a year ahead of him, so normally he tried to get there early to have some time with her beforehand.</p><p>He paused, hand on the doorknob and gave Thomas a sheepish smile. “Thanks for walking me.”</p><p>He shrugged. “I have a free now, so it’s not like I had anywhere else to be.” He paused; glanced down at the floor before meeting Alexander’s eye. “So – I’ll see you tonight?”</p><p>“Oh.” He had already forgotten. “Yeah.” He nodded, grinning; “I’ve heard you’re quite a chaotic drunk.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself.” Thomas scoffed, “I’m a fabulous drunk.”</p><p>He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.”</p><p>The corridor was panelled by a row of large windows along one wall, and the sun had risen high enough so that it poured through. Thomas’s skin was honeyed in it’s glow.</p><p>Alexander realised he’d never actually been around Thomas while he was drunk. That would be interesting.</p><p>“Class?”</p><p>His eyes snapped back to Thomas’s. He turned before he wasted any more time and slipped through the door. The theatre was another huge one, and the professor continued talking without paying Alexander the slightest bit of attention. He scanned the rows for a moment, trying to spot Angelica among all the faces. He caught the flash of a hand a few rows up and saw her giving him a small wave.</p><p>Making his way up the steps, he sidled past the other people in the row, muttering an apology as they shuffled sideways to make room. He slipped into the seat next to Angelica, ignoring her questioning glare, and pulled out his book.</p><p> </p><p>An hour later the professor told them all to take ten, and the chatter immediately started to rise as everyone stretched, turning to talk to people in the surrounding rows. Angelica rounded on him.</p><p>“Why the hell were you late?”</p><p>“Hey! I’m hardly ever late. Cut me some slack, jesus.”</p><p>“That,” she raised a cold eyebrow, “is exactly my point. You’re never late. So why were you?”</p><p>“Can I borrow your notes for the stuff I missed?”</p><p>She ignored him, her gaze steely. He relented. “My other class ran over. And I was talking to Thomas.”</p><p>“Thomas?”</p><p>“Uh. Jefferson?”</p><p>Her eyebrows rose so high they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline. “Thomas? When did ‘Jefferson’ become ‘Thomas’ to you? Any other revelations I should know about?”</p><p>He rolled his eyes. Trust Angelica to be overly dramatic. “I don’t really know. It just sort of did.”</p><p>“Yes.” She quipped, somehow managing to inject suspicious judgement into every syllable. “I heard about that. What exactly is going on between the two of you?”</p><p>“For fucks sake. Calm down!” He resisted rolling his eyes again, and slumped back into his seat, resigning himself to the interrogation. “Honestly I don’t even know. We were paired together in a class for the term, so I just think he decided that we would get much done if we weren't always arguing.”</p><p>“Well, thrilled as I am that this truce is taking up valuable class time, I thought we were together on this.” Underneath her callous indifference, she looked a little hurt. “What happened to hating him?”</p><p>He shrugged. “I never ‘hated’ him, technically, he’s just a fuckwit. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a dumbass.” He nudged her elbow in a small attempt to break her demure. “But he can be sort of nice sometimes. Also, have you noticed that he smells kind of good?”</p><p>“I most certainly have not.” Angelica shot him a look of disparaging disgust.</p><p>“Oh.” He felt his cheeks redden slightly. Why did he have such an inability to keep his mouth shut?<br/>
“Anyway,” he hurried on in a weak attempt to cover his embarrassment, “are you going tonight?”</p><p>Dropping her frown, Angelica grimaced. “I don’t think so. I have a paper due tomorrow – even though it’s a fucking Saturday - and I stupidly left it to the last minute. So unless I manage to finish it by tonight, probably not.”</p><p>“No!” He groaned, laying his head back against the top of his seat. “I miss gossiping with you.” He prodded her arm until she smiled reluctantly, glancing down at him.</p><p>“Well we’d have precious little to gossip about now that you’ve crossed enemy lines.”</p><p>He gasped, grinning. “How could you! But seriously, please come? I really do live for your drunk commentary, you know that.”</p><p>“I told you! I have to finish the paper.”</p><p>“Ehh. Fuck work.”</p><p>She snorted. “Hilarious.” But she was smiling.</p><p>“I’ll even help you – we can write half each.” He sat up as the professor called for silence.</p><p>“It’s okay. Thank you though.” She grabbed his arm, pulling it upwards and bent to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. He twisted his shoulder so he could cover her face with his hand and she pushed him off with a muffled laugh.</p><p>“I’ll try and make it.” She shook her head. “The things I do for you.”</p><p>“You know it.” He nudged her. “Find me if you do, yeah?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>The professor resumed the lecture and the last of the chatter died down. Angelica slid a sheet of paper onto his desk and glancing at it he realised it was her notes from the start of the lecture that he had missed. He grinned, mouthing, “I could kiss you.”</p><p>“Restrain yourself.” She rolled her eyes, bending over her page.</p><p>Angelica could be hard and abrasive when she wanted to be, but Alexander knew her better than that. She had a heart that was matched only by her sister and a fierce intelligence he couldn’t help but admire. Even though she came from old money, her father deep in the politics circle, she never spoke about it – disentangling from her familial attachments and preferring to make a name for herself. Which was a lot more than he could say for most of the people here.</p><p>He finished copying her notes and slid the page back to her, then settled back into his seat and refocused his attention on the professor.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' </p><p>Let me know your thoughts! Also do you have any predictions for what's going to happen?<br/>much love x </p><p>p.s I've almost finished the next chapter and holy hell do things happen. All I'm saying is you better prepare yourselves..</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. we drink the poison our minds pour for us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Careless abandon and a quiet but insistent 'what if'</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! Again, thank you for all your sweet comments, and extra love to ToyMouse and Sweetprettygeek who hyped me up so patiently and made me excited to keep writing. </p><p>Please keep saying hello and offering your thoughts, my new favourite thing is gushing over these idiots with you all x </p><p>Anyway, here's another chapter. Just a couple of things; sorry it's not technically the promised bonfire, because I really wanted to save that for later on. And! DISCLAIMER!! I promised a slow burn, and that is what you shall get. Don't let this fool you...!<br/>(you have no idea how scared I am to post this...ahh. Anyway)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was just after six that evening when Alexander and John made their way down from their dorm to where they were meeting Hercules and Elizabeth. It was almost dark, and the light from the windows in the buildings framing the quad cast weak panels of light on the grass. Alexander had never met Elizabeth before, and was instantly struck by how tall she was; a slight figure with long dark hair. </p><p>She offered a bright smile as they approached; it warmed her face, crinkling her eyes and softening her high cheekbones. </p><p>“Hi!” She said, her accent clear and crisp. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’m Liz.” She faltered with slight embarrassment. “But, uh, you probably already knew that.” </p><p>Alexander grinned, nodding a hello and John gave her a mock bow, saying in a faux posh English accent; “my dear. It is simply a pleasure.” </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Alexander opened his arms and after a second Liz stepped into them, warmly returning his embrace. If she was Hercules’ soulmate she was going to be spending a lot of time around them so they may as well bypass the awkwardness that often comes hand in hand with initial introductions. </p><p> “Yeah, yeah.” Hercules scoffed at John, who simply grinned in response, shrugging as if to say; ‘would you really expect anything else?’ </p><p>“Let’s get a move on.”</p><p>They began to make their way across the grounds in the direction of the forest. Hercules held out his hand for Liz, who slipped her fingers through his without hesitation. </p><p>“Oh, great. That’s right, rub it in. We don’t care.” </p><p>Hercules glanced over at John with an amused twitch of his eyebrow. “You know I love you just as dearly.” </p><p>He held out his other hand and John crossed his arms haughtily. “Excuse you. I don’t need your pity.” </p><p>Hercules started to laugh and John placed a hand to his chest. “Now you’re <i>mocking</i> me! Alex!” He turned dramatically to Alexander and flung a warm arm around his waist. “We’ve been outnumbered and deserted!” </p><p>Alexander caught Liz’s bemused smile and rolled his eyes, the corners of his own lips rising. He liked this side of John; convivial, relaxed and playful. He threaded his fingers through John’s, whose arm was still tightly clutching his waist, and planted an elaborate kiss on his cheek. </p><p>“You know my dear, I think we have been. <i>Como triste.</i>.” </p><p> </p><p>Ahead of them was another group, and yet another a little farther on; a bunch of first years, exuberant and giggling and clearly already halfway drunk. Honestly, if the professors <i>didn’t</i> know this was happening Alexander would be worried about their observation skills. </p><p>“It’s a shame it’s not a bonfire this time.” </p><p>“I know!” Hercules made a face, tugging on Liz’s hand. “That’s one of the few things here that’s actually worth seeing.” </p><p>“Maybe they’ll do another one later on?” She suggested, and Hercules shrugged.</p><p>“Maybe.” </p><p>“ Normally these things are at the start of term – and sometimes the end – to catch people before all the exams and assignments hit.” John explained. </p><p>“Oh, yeah. We had something similar at Cambridge. Every term or so there would be a welcome gala, or some kind of fundraiser, and then afterwards we’d all go to one of the frat houses and get plastered.” Liz grinned at the memory. “We had a few professors who were pretty young and if we were convincing enough we could rope them in.” </p><p>“No way.” </p><p>“Yeah! That’s England for you.” She laughed; light and open. </p><p>“Believe me, there’s nothing more hilarious than seeing your stuffy history professor drunk of his head, slow dancing on the top of a table with the book of genesis.” </p><p>Alexander laughed. “Um, I think we should all go to England.” </p><p>“Eh, no thanks.” John wrinkled his nose. “Way too much rain.” </p><p>“Hey!” Liz protested, “it doesn’t rain <i>all</i> the time.”</p><p>“No, just ninety five per cent of it.” </p><p>Liz wacked Hercules jovially on the arm.  “Whatever.” </p><p> </p><p>Halfway through the forest were a collection of disused and abandoned dorm rooms that used to be part of the old section of the university before it had been expanded. Everyone had known they were there, but previously no one had been able to actually get in as the building was surrounded by high, slightly rusted barbed wire fences. Normally the bonfire was assembled in the outskirts of the fence as here the trees were spaced out quite sporadically. Two days ago, however, some second years had been milling around – probably amid the smoke of a badly rolled cigarette – when they discovered that two of the fences near the back had opened up like a kissing gate. </p><p>The building was similar to the rest of the university, with the exception of being noticeably older; the sandstone cracked and crumbling, ivy crawling up its edges and into the rotting window frames. A few of the lights were still working, however, so it couldn’t be that old. </p><p>As they drew closer, stifled shrieks and bursts of laughter floated towards them through the trees, and the light emanating from the dirty cracked windows undulated across the tree roots with the sway of moving bodies. Alexander grinned in spite of himself and John squeezed his hand in anticipation, before letting got so that they could slide carefully through the slim jagged opening in the fences. </p><p> </p><p>A sixth year let them through the door, along with the other people who had arrived at the same time, and Alexander was immediately engulfed by the warm smell of booze, sweat and smoke. It was packed, but not stifling. Some of the walls between the dorms had been knocked down, and people were lazing on sunken mattresses atop wrought iron bed frames or on squashed, moth eaten sofas. Out of the lights that actually worked, most were flickering weakly so the rooms were only dimly lit; the russet golden glow resembling something close to the bonfire light that normally surrounded this scene. </p><p> </p><p>The four made their way slowly through until they reached an old kitchen, where the booze had been left on the caving island. Someone had been smart and had brought a huge bag of paper cups, probably snagged from the university’s kitchen. John grabbed four and the nearest bottle, pouring them each a shot. Alexander tipped his head back feeling the familiar, almost comforting burn in his throat and smiled. He loved these nights; here he could be relaxed – unburdened and careless. </p><p>Setting his cup back down as John reached for the bottle again, he heard the squeal of his name and Eliza came tumbling through the doors, draping herself around his shoulders. She smelled of the sweet liqueur she favoured, and Alexander could tell from the loop in her smile that she had already been here for a few hours. </p><p>“Hi!” She said breathlessly, turning his face towards her with the palm of her hand and pressing a kiss to his cheek that slipped dangerously close to his mouth. </p><p>“Oops!” She brought a hand up to cover a smile, stifling a giggle. “Sorry!”<br/>
He winked and downed his second shot with only the barest wince. “Please, feel free.” </p><p>Feeling bold, he leant over and grazed the top of her ear with his teeth, delighting in the blush that spread through her cheeks. </p><p>Already he could feel the warmth spreading through his stomach, loosening his fingers and relaxing his smile. The loud, clattering conversation in the rooms around them blurred out slightly into a pleasant hum, and he reached for a bottle of cheap rosé, wanting to last through the night. </p><p>“Elizabeth!” John said with a grin, addressing Eliza by her full name and making her grimace. “This is Elizabeth.” </p><p>Liz waved from across the bench. “It’s just Liz.” </p><p>Eliza smiled at her. “Watch him call us Elizabeth just to be irritating.” </p><p>“ I wouldn’t dream of it!” John winked at her and she swatted him playfully. </p><p>“Come!” She tugged on Alexander’s hand. “Let’s go find a free sofa to squash into.” </p><p>He grabbed his cup and followed Eliza out into the throng, catching and returning smiles with a lot more ease than usual. It was nice; not having to constantly overthink every small detail. </p><p>“Have you seen Lafayette?” He asked as they found an empty bed that had been dragged out into the narrow hall. It took up the entire space so they could all fit comfortably, sat opposite each other; leaning against the walls with their legs crisscrossed in the middle of the bed.<br/>
The fact that Thomas would probably be wherever Lafayette was had definitely not crossed his mind and was a mere coincidence in his curiosity. </p><p>“No,” Eliza replied brightly, “but I’m sure he’ll find us soon.” </p><p> </p><p>They passed a happy hour like that while Liz told them stories of England and John gave increasingly ludicrous impersonations of the Queen until Eliza was wheezing, tears streaming down her face as she begged him to stop.</p><p>A girl with dark caramel skin and thick black curls hanging in tendrils down her back tapped Liz on the shoulder and she sat up, opening her arms wide in invitation.</p><p>“Hi!” Her cheeks were red from tequila and laughter, and she wrapped her arms around the girl’s waist in a brief hello. “Everyone, this is Maria.” </p><p>She gave them a shy smile. “Do you mind if I sit with you? The people I came with are off doing, well. Doing something I really don’t want to join in on.”</p><p>“Oh, poor you.” Eliza wrinkled her nose in sympathy. </p><p>“Sure.” Alexander offered her a tilting smile as they all scooted down the bed to make room for her. </p><p>“Thanks!” She clambered up beside him. </p><p>John leant across from the other side of Eliza, throwing a grin. “I’m John, so if I don’t remember you tomorrow come and remind me that we’ve met.” </p><p>Maria laughed, and they passed a half hour predicting which of the couples around them were likely to have slept together by the end of the night. Judging by the outcome of previous bonfire nights; most of them. </p><p>Someone sauntered through the corridor handing out beers like he was presenting each person with a medal. It took him a few moments to clamber over the tangle of their legs and by the time he got across they were all gasping with hysteric laughter. Alexander sipped on his beer, brain warm and fuzzing; Eliza’s head on his shoulder and one hand lying on Maria’s thigh. She was sweet and quick-witted, and was pressing into him in a way that made him like her instinctively. </p><p> </p><p><i>”Mes amores!”</i> The rich, unmistakable accent of Lafayette sung through the throb of voices and he threw himself down on their legs without warning. They groaned in unison, swatting him repeatedly until he rolled off with a laugh, sitting on the floor dazedly for a moment before pulling himself up with a slight stagger. </p><p>“Let me guess. You have not moved from here all night, hmm?” He shook his head, muttering “you <i>lazy</i> Americans.” </p><p>“Speak for yourself!” Liz interjected, her voice disproportionally loud in Alexander’s ears and John reached across to slap Lafayette, but missed and almost fell off the bed. He collapsed into Eliza instead, giggling weakly. </p><p>Lafayette ignored them. “Come, I demand you all dance.” He turned to Alexander, offering his hand. <i>”L’amour de mi vie,”</i> he said thickly. <i>“Fais-moi l’honneur?”</i> </p><p>Mind and senses warmed and a little out of his control, Alexander gazed up at him through his lashes, bending to press a long kiss to his knuckles. </p><p>
  <i>“Intenta deternerme.”</i>
</p><p>“Ugh. Get a room.” John groaned weakly, his face now squashed into Eliza’s lap. </p><p>Lafayette laughed; “Jealous, <i>ami?”</i> and tugged on Alexander’s hand until he grudgingly pushed himself off the bed. Eliza stumbled after him, snagging his arm and they made their way through the crowds and up a stairwell, weaving their way through the scattered groups of people seated on the steps. Their faces loomed towards him like fish in a bowl, and he focused instead on the consistency of Lafayette as he pulled him upwards. </p><p>The floor above them was slightly dimmer, with only a single feature light swinging on a worryingly thin wire. The stairwell opened into a spacious room in which people were swaying, loose and uncoordinated to a stuttering radio set that someone had left in the corner of the room that was bleating out a warbling Elvis Presley that Alexander couldn’t focus on the words of. </p><p>Eliza grabbed Maria, who had followed them, looping her arms easily around the other girl’s slim shoulders and Maria slipped a hand around Eliza’s waist, spinning them into the throng. </p><p>Alexander turned to Lafayette, pressing himself up against him and returning his sleepy smile. </p><p>“You know, it is nice to see you happy for once.” </p><p>“Hey!” He protested, his words slowed and slightly heavy in his mouth. “I’m happy!</p><p>Through the gloom, he saw Lafayette roll his eyes. The motion made him dizzy. </p><p>“You know what I mean.” </p><p>He sighed, letting Lafayette guide them in small circles until he was spun suddenly away. He let out an involuntary giggle in shock and careened right into the arms of Maria. They fell into each other, breathless and laughing, and she immediately pressed a hand to the back of his neck, moving her hips in small circles and pulling him into a much more energetic dance than Lafayette had led him in. </p><p>Both were languid and quick to laugh; Alexander grabbed her hands and spun them both in circles until the room was spinning and they were both gasping. They fell against each other again, eyes bright and feet stumbling for purchase. Leaning up, her body crushed against his own, Maria pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, his neck; her mouth hot against his skin. </p><p>Eliza appeared out of nowhere, slipping her hand through Maria’s and tugging her away from Alexander with a wicked, Angelica-like grin. He watched them with a vague smile on his face until suddenly a voice in his ear made him jump. </p><p>“Alexander.”</p><p>Thomas’s voice was low, dripped in alcohol and that Southern assonance that honeyed his name in a way that caught Alexander’s breath in his throat. </p><p>He turned to find himself flush against him, warmth beating off like a heartbeat. Alexander tilted his face upwards, lips lightly parted, and in a senseless, vaguely hazy section of his brain recognised that Thomas looked good. Why hadn’t he acknowledged this before? He allowed his gaze to roam over his face; the curve of his nose, shallowness of his breaths, his full rounded lips. </p><p>Thomas’s throat moved around a swallow and Alexander swivelled his eyes guiltily back up, the movement leaving him momentarily disorientated. Thomas’s eyes were heavy as he looked down at him, darkened with alcohol and something Alexander was way to unfocused to decipher. </p><p>“Oh. Dear.” He said slowly, taking a small effort to focus on each individual word. A cohesive sentence seemed an impossibly challenging milestone. “You found me.” </p><p><i>“Il semble que, oui.”</i> Thomas’s voice dipped, a low murmur around the French and Alexander balked. The knowledge that <i>Thomas spoke French</i> seemed to take up new meaning in his brain. Thomas spoke <i>sexy</i> French. He let out a slightly delirious giggle. A giddiness was spreading through his chest that he stoically blamed on the alcohol. </p><p>“Dance with me?”</p><p>‘Ask me in French,’ he was on the verge of saying, but was too slow to get the words out. Thomas had already pressed them together, his hand reaching out to grip Alexander’s hipbone and his mouth opened instead around a breathless gasp. </p><p>He struggled with the urge to giggle again, and reached up to grip Thomas’s shoulders for support, letting his hands trail along the lean hard muscle and sighed. </p><p>“You have nice shoulders.” He mumbled, then caught himself. </p><p>He felt Thomas’s chest expand against his in a laugh.<br/>
“What did you say?” His words blurred ever so slightly. </p><p>What the hell <i>had</i> he just said?</p><p>“I. Uh.” He stuttered. This was getting ridiculous. He conjured an image of the Thomas he knew – face contorted into a sneer and hissing out a cutting insult – not the Thomas who smelled good and spoke French that made his throat dry and whose shoulders he was still trailing his hands over. </p><p>“I said,” he summoned some dignity, “that you are an asshole.” </p><p>He smiled. There. He’d said something right. Then he leaned forward and bit lightly into the soft flesh of his shoulder before he had the chance to register that this was another thing in the realm of very bad ideas he should not act upon. Thomas’s fingers tightened on his hip and he pulled back, horror struck for a second before confusion washed over him. </p><p>Why was he not meant to do that? He was sure there was a reason. He thought for a minute but when nothing came to him, he smiled lazily up at Thomas who grinned, before spinning them both in a dizzying circle. </p><p>Alexander yelped, stumbling against him. </p><p>“Alex!”</p><p>Mid spin, they both turned in the direction of the call; Alexander’s back pressed against Thomas’s front, who still had his arms looped around Alexander’s waist. </p><p>Eliza was standing in the hallway, her hand outstretched as she beckoned them. </p><p>Lafayette appeared out of nowhere, throwing himself on Thomas who laughed, stumbling under the sudden weight and Alexander crossed the floor with a slight stumble and enfolded himself around Eliza, burrowing his face in her sweet-smelling hair. </p><p>She seemed to have sobered a little; laughing at the warmth of his embrace, her hands finding his. “Come, we’re playing spin the bottle.” </p><p>“Noo,” Alexander tried to disentangle himself from her, but her fingers slid through his own and she held on. </p><p>“No, no. No. That is a very bad idea.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “Very bad.” </p><p>“Oh, calm down!” She laughed softly, dragging him through the hall and into an empty, dimly lit dorm room where a loose circle of people were seated on the ground. “No one will remember it tomorrow, anyway.” </p><p>Tomorrow seemed like a lifetime away, so he shrugged as he spotted John, who’s face split into a wide smile. He scooted over to make room for them and Alexander tugged Eliza through the circle towards him, dimly recognising some people from his lectures, and made to sit down in the small empty space beside him but missed entirely, and somehow ended up in John’s lap. Alexander felt the soft breath of his laugh in his ear, and decided he couldn’t be bothered to move so leant back into John’s chest, feeling his chin come to rest on the top of his head. </p><p>He saw Thomas take a seat with Lafayette beside James on the opposite side of the circle and felt a slight pang of disappointment, watching him listening to something Lafayette was saying before throwing his head back with a laugh, his eyes crinkling. Alexander felt a warmth spreading lazily through him and he frowned, brushing the thought aside and reaching back to snag some of Eliza’s Frangelico. </p><p>A girl crawled into the middle of the circle and spun an empty cider bottle before someone called out; “Hey! Wait! What rules are we playing to?”</p><p>There was a general outbreak of answers; everyone’s voices blending together until someone interjected – “How about we just warm up with kissing and then move on when that gets boring.” </p><p>“Or when we’ve drunk more.” </p><p>There were a few giggles, people murmured their assent, and the bottle was spun. </p><p>Alexander sat sipping Eliza’s drink that he had claimed as his own, as the bottle made it’s slow progress through the circle, watching people crawl to each other in varying stages of intoxicity. Light pecks gave way to open mouthed kisses until one pair rolled on the floor, engaged in something decidedly French. Eliza had stumbled through the circle to fall into James’ lap, coming back flushed and breathless amid cat calls, and Thomas had received a slap for unclipping a girls bra, right after he and Lafayette had spent an exaggerated minute in each other’s laps, with an overly dramatic display of whispered French that Alexander thought was simply unnecessary. He rolled his eyes, thinking Thomas would probably kiss anything if it stood still long enough. </p><p>The bottle landed on him and John, and there was a moment’s argument before it was decided that it was definitely for him, and they got yelled at to ‘sit the fuck apart and stop making it confusing for everyone.’ The bottle was spun again, landing on Maria who gave him a warm open smile and began to crawl towards him. </p><p>He met her in the middle of the circle, dimly aware that this might not be an appropriate time to stay in John’s lap, catching her gaze fondly and threading a hand through her loose curls. Her lips were soft against his; her hand reaching out to ball his shirt into a fist as he bit gently into her lower lip, her mouth opening in a sigh. He pulled back, looking at her though softened eyes and grazed his lips over her flushed cheek in unabashed affection. </p><p>His lips tingled slightly as he made his way back to sit beside John, and he admitted in a vague section of his mind that Maria was a good kisser. Not that he had a whole lot to compare her to, but still. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he felt the haze fogging his brain ease ever so slightly, the conversation clearing into something a little more discernable around him as the next pair made their unsteady way towards each other. </p><p> </p><p>It went on; the kisses getting more elaborate and sloppy, people’s cups were refilled and someone dug out a sponge cake from god knew where. The circle became more intimate, everyone growing comfortable around each other as their conscience was soothed by hard liquor, and soon they were shouting demands and encouragement at each pair. </p><p>Alexander was leaning back against Eliza, still laughing as John struggled fruitlessly back into his shirt, when the bottle landed on him for the second time of the evening. He paid little attention, still focused on John who, in his inebriated state, had stuck both his arm and head in the same shirt hole, and was sheepishly accepting help from Louise, who was seated on his left and with whom Alexander knew John shared gross anatomy. It was only when he realised who else the bottle had landed on when he felt the laughter dry up in his chest leaving it barren and scorched.  </p><p>He turned, and locked slightly horrified eyes with Thomas Jefferson. </p><p>The rest of the circle, oblivious to their dilemma, had started up their clamour: “Do it shirtless!” “Oh, ooh, what about blindfolded?” “Can we all agree they have to last at least three minutes?”</p><p>The haze that had been gradually receding was suddenly sucked abruptly away; and his consciousness dripped the thought that had been nagging at him all evening through his brain. This was Thomas Jefferson, <i>Jefferson</i> who had spent a good two years doing nothing but insult him. Jefferson who hated him.</p><p>A small, pathetically hopeful part of his brain, the part still gripping onto the last strains of unawareness, nudged him. Things were different now. Thomas seemed to like him. He was nice, at the very least. He had <i>danced</i> with him. And Alexander liked being around him – now a stupid game was going to ruin that. </p><p>The other half of his brain, now awake and vigilant, tossed these thoughts carelessly aside. He was nice because he had to be. Alexander couldn’t keep on forgetting that. Because they both had to pass their class. And tonight they have both been drunk. Hell, they were both <i>still</i> drunk. So, technically, it meant nothing. And, besides, he rationalised – it was only a dare. By the end of the night, everyone would have pretty much been with everyone else in the circle, and then some. The sleepy, nonsensical part of his brain raised a hopeful head. This <i>was</i> Thomas Jefferson. Who’d been with just about everyone, and probably half of France for all Alexander knew. He had to admit he was curious. </p><p>Except that Thomas was Thomas. And he was, well, no one really. The old hesitance and self-awareness Alexander usually felt around Thomas crept back with the unrelenting insistence that habit brings. It pushed the civility, the closeness that they had fallen into over the past weeks unforgivingly away, leaving him with nothing until he was stewing in his own doubt. </p><p>There was no way someone like <i>Thomas Jefferson</i> would stomach touching someone like him, if only for a dare. </p><p><i>You can always back down.</i> The thought broke through the relentless racket in his mind, and glancing up he realised that Thomas was staring at him, eyebrows raised in something like a challenge. Alexander set his jaw. He couldn’t be the <i>only</i> person out of the whole evening to back out of dare. He couldn’t give <i>Jefferson</i> that satisfaction. </p><p>Whatever he was, he was not weak. </p><p>“What?” He taunted softly, accent blurred by the alcohol. “Scared?”</p><p>His words were edged, very slightly, with the old malice Alexander was so used to. It closed around his heart in a cold reminder. </p><p>This was nothing. Absolutely nothing. </p><p>“You wish.” </p><p>Someone wolf whistled. Alexander rolled his eyes in a display of indifference that couldn’t be further from the sinking feeling in his chest. </p><p><i>Told you.</i> the smug voice in his head was laughing. Nothing. <i>Nothing, nothing, nothing.</i></p><p>He let the alcohol he had briefly pushed aside seep back through him, hoping desperately for some form of confidence. His heart beat in uncertainty as he made his way across the circle, stumbling a little despite being on his hands and knees. </p><p> </p><p>He hesitated for a split second in front of him, before squeezing his last remaining portion of dignity into a ball and climbing into Thomas’s lap. His eyes widened a fraction, and his hands flew to Alexander’s hips in an involuntary jerk before his expression cooled into indifference. </p><p>Alexander glanced down at his heavy eyes, lashes fanning soft shadows out across his cheeks and breathed in the smell of sweat, sweet liquor and the faint lingering hint of coconut and suddenly didn’t care.</p><p>Loosing his nerve, he whispered; “Sorry, you don’t have to do this.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Uh. Because it’s me?” </p><p>His heartbeat was so loud he was sure Thomas could hear its blatant insistence of his discomfort despite the loud murmur of indistinct voices around them. He wondered if he could feel its pulse radiating out, and shifted uncomfortably when Thomas remained silent, a small furrow in between his brows. </p><p>He rushed to fill the pause, words tumbling uselessly out of his mouth like they always did. </p><p>“I can back out if you like?”</p><p>“Hamilton stop being so fucking stupid, it’s just a dare.” </p><p>There it was again, come back to haunt him; always over thinking, over analysing, reading too deep. </p><p>In his narrowed, slightly erratic vision, his focus had condensed onto Thomas’s lips. He frowned, indignant in spite of himself. </p><p>“I’m not stupid” It came out as a stubborn mutter.<br/>
“Yeah?” Thomas raised an eyebrow. Alexander watched him swallow. “Then prove it.” </p><p>Alexander glared at him, then leant forward, his hands coming to rest on Thomas’ shoulders, brushing their lips together with the lightest of touches before pulling back half a centimetre. </p><p>He truly intended it to be quick, almost a peck, just to satisfy his pride and the dare; because his conscience was still brimming with doubt and his hands were clammy and a little shaky. </p><p>But then Thomas let out a small, weighted breath, lifting a hand from Alexander’s hip to grip the side of his face; pulling them back together and kissing him with more force and insistency than he’d ever been kissed before. Alexander’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened in spite of himself; fingers digging into the soft cotton of Thomas’ sweater as he thought, dimly that France had definitely paid off. </p><p>Thomas’ lips were soft but pressed into his own with an almost impatient desire that left his heart frantic in his chest, fulfilling a need he didn’t know he craved that Maria nor anyone else had satisfied, and his apprehension momentarily evaporated as the entirety of his being tipped over with the feeling. </p><p>And he shouldn’t be feeling this way, <i>he shouldn’t,</i> because this is Thomas, <i>Thomas Jefferson for fuck’s sake</i> and nothing good will come of it, nothing, and despite the haze, the frantic need curling in his belly, the intoxicating feel of <i>him</i>, there was a quiet, nagging insistence to <i>stop right now, now before it becomes too late,</i> but the alcohol was strong, still thick in his veins, and, really, it was just dare; nothing more, and he had dragged his teeth against Thomas’ bottom lip before he could stop himself. </p><p>Thomas let out a soft, guttural moan at the back of his throat at the action, hand tightening and jerking Alexander’s hips towards him with a slight desperation that seemed a little out of his control. Heat that was definitely from more than the alcohol was curling through him, and Alexander had to grip the twisted cotton harder in order to stop himself trailing his hands down Thomas’ chest, or other places that he was definitely not thinking about, and he knew he should <i>not</i> be feeling this; it was wrong and completely out of the question, but he was struggling to stay soft and it just wasn’t working because Thomas’ fingers were digging into the soft flesh above his hipbone, and he could feel the heat radiating off him and his mouth was open against his own. </p><p>Suddenly Thomas moved his hand, sliding it gently up the back of Alexander’s neck and into his hair, tugging with an insistent urge that forced him to bite back a groan; it awakened the logical, cautious part of him the alcohol had momentarily subdued that habitually governed his every move, and, loud, shrill and insistent it bleated it’s mantra: <i>remember who you are.</i></p><p> </p><p>Discomfort washed over Alexander, masking the incessant need to cling to the man beneath him, and he pulled back, hands dropping from Thomas’ shoulders. Ignoring the way Thomas leaned forward chasing his lips, heavy eyes opening just a fraction, he stood, a little shakily, and made his way back across the circle. Around him everyone had blurred into indistinct shapes, the catcalls a dimmed, wordless hum, his hands numb and clammy, his heartbeat hollow in his ears. His skin prickled in the cold that enveloped him, evaporating the initial heat into a nervous sweat; muggy discomfort curdling in his stomach at the undeniable feeling that <i>something wasn’t right.</i> </p><p>He tried brushing it off as simply a good kiss – he’d had them before and they were nothing, he always told himself that they were nothing, because they couldn’t be, and this wasn’t, definitely was <i>not</i> anything either. </p><p>So why was he shaking and uncertain and feeling entirely out of his depth, and he hated it, hated the fact that his relentless insecurity never allowed him to sit in comfort with anything; and he reminded himself that this, <i>this,</i> right here, was why he would never have a soulmate, because he couldn’t even kiss someone without his own trepidation washing him away like a tide and instead of fighting he let it carry him, and he sat there silently drowning in the echoes of all the people he’d ever loved, and lost.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from a poem by Atticus. </p><p>Uh. Slight cliff hanger. Really sorry! Like I said, don't forget that the burn will still be achingly slow. </p><p>I really hope this was okay. Anyway, talk to me and let me know what you think :)</p><p>much love x </p><p>p.s oh dear, Maria, what will you get in the way of? Also is it just me who laughed at the shoulder biting?<br/>p.p.s also I made a tumblr to post spoilers etc and feel free to come and yell at me over there it's 'superloonyluna'</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. childhood is a knife stuck in the throat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a revelation and an interruption</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! thank you AGAIN for everyone's comments; I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear what you think about the chapters. Please please keep talking to me &lt;3 </p><p>Also, sorry! I know this chapter is a bit short but my term just started back again so it's harder to write and I wanted at least to give you all something! </p><p>DISCLAIMER: there's a brief mention of a suicide (Alex's cousin) at the beginning of the chapter. It's not explicit, but if you're not comfortable that sort of content please skip it. It's safe to start reading from the paragraph beginning with "He stood..."<br/>Please keep safe and lots of love &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room was closing in on him, and even though the game had resumed a while ago, Alexander could feel eyes; beady and voyeuristically invasive from all corners of the room. His breathing was loud, ping-ponging around his ears – he could see the cages at the bottom of the ship, rusty and barbed, and between them he felt like he was <i>in</i> one; his cousin was hanging from the rafters, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock and his mother’s voice was soft, too soft in his ears, drowned out by the hullabaloo around him; his mind plunging him into an eggbeater of utter doubt and pandemonium and memory, and suddenly it was too much. </p><p>He stood – with an offering of more alcohol he didn’t remember uttering, and walked numbly from the room at the general outcry of ascent, pushing his way, unseeing, through the couples still dancing to the grouching radio, tangling in arms and eyes and hair, breaths beating out of him in a syncopated rhythm that was beyond his control; until he was expelled into the cool emptiness of the cluttered kitchen. </p><p>He leaned against the counter, hands splayed out on the cool wood, staring blindly at the scattered cups, cracked bowls, jagged pieces of glass, spilt booze, half empty bottles. </p><p>He had left because the air had been sucked out of the room, because he could talk in a class of over a hundred people, could rattle off remarks with a steady voice and hands, but he couldn’t deal with situations like his because they made him feel so aware of himself, so conscious of his inadequacy; he left because he couldn’t stand his own presence. </p><p>He took a deep breath. It was, really, just a dare. He repeated it like a lifeline. Nothing to get worked up on. He shouldn’t let Thomas make him feel this way. Why <i>was</i> he even feeling like this? Just a dare; nothing more. There didn’t have to be a consequence, and there didn’t have to be an outcome. He didn’t even have to think of it. </p><p>Gradually, the room cleared around him; his heart rate slowed, Elvis was singing again scratchily in the next room. </p><p> </p><p>Alexander glanced round the kitchen, similar to the one on the floor below. God, it was a mess. He remembered his mother in their own tiny kitchen; he used to sit cross-legged on the counter top and watch her work her way around it with a ragged cloth, every evening without fail – regardless of how many hours she’d spent at work during the day. </p><p>He walked to the old sink, crouching down to open the cupboards beneath it. Sure enough there were a few rags thrown carelessly in the back corner with a container of soap; almost empty with a faded, peeling label. </p><p>The tap spluttered for a second before working properly, and Alexander set to work on the sink first, squeezing a little of the soap around the rim of the basin and starting to scrub. </p><p> </p><p>Behind him, someone cleared their throat and Alexander turned, still scrubbing, to see Thomas; leaning against the littered counter top and watching him with a slightly bemused expression. </p><p>Ah, yes. Just the person he wanted to see. </p><p>His heart beating a little faster, he forced a small smile, raising his eyebrows in a silent question and turning back to the sink: his salvation. </p><p>“Did you need something.” </p><p>“Er…not exactly.” The words were wrapped around a smile, but it was the subtly hesitancy in his voice that made Alexander turn around to face him again. The hand that Thomas brought up to run, almost without thinking, through his hair was shaking ever so slightly. The knowledge that he wasn’t the only one rattled was inexplicibly calming.  </p><p>“I just wondered where you’d got to. Are you. Um. Are you cleaning?”</p><p>“Maybe.” For some reason Alexander felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Thomas had come to find him. Maybe he wasn’t completely repulsed by him. Maybe they could let the whole thing blow over without it changing anything. </p><p>“I came to get more alcohol, but then everything was kind of dirty, and, well I don’t know. Now I’m cleaning.” </p><p>He turned on the tap and started to rinse off the cloth. </p><p>Thomas laughed quietly behind him, then moved so he was leaning against the bench to Alexander’s left. </p><p>“I can see that.” </p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes at him, giving the sink a once over with the clean cloth. He had to admit, even in it’s dilapidated state it was considerably better than before. </p><p>Thomas’ foot nudged at something invisible on the floor. “Actually, I wanted to ask – I mean, I just wondered. It – that didn’t, you know, mean anything to you, did it?”</p><p>Alexander turned to him and sighed, despite the apprehensive twist in his gut. “Relax <i>querido.</i> It was just a dare. I’m not going to be hanging off your arm and begging for more – you don’t have to worry.” </p><p>The last thing he wanted was for Thomas to go back to ignoring him, or worse, despising him just because he thought Alexander would become another clingy fling he couldn’t shake off. Besides, Alexander didn’t want anything do with him in that sense. Not at all. Not in the slightest. He just liked the fact that they were sort of friends – that was all.</p><p>“Right. Of course, yeah.” Thomas gave a half laugh. “Just a dare.”</p><p>“Yep.” </p><p>He rinsed off the sink one last time, wrung out the cloth and hung it over the tap before turning his attention to the used cups that had been haphazardly thrown around the counter, and began to stack them into a teetering pile. </p><p>“So we’re good?”</p><p>He shrugged. “Sure?”</p><p>Honestly, he wasn’t sure what Thomas meant by that. Had they been ‘good’ before? He supposed they had been. </p><p>Thomas nodded; stopped toeing the floor. Crossing his arms over his chest, he smirked, his innate confidence seeming to reassert itself. </p><p>“You know, I’ve kissed a lot of people -”</p><p>Alexander scowled at him, cutting in; “much as I’m sure that would be a thrilling tale, I really don’t need to be enlightened.” </p><p>The last thing he needed to listen to was how many times Thomas had got some.  </p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “If you would let me finish, I was going to say – you’re a good kisser.” </p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p><p>Alexander brushed it off, shrugging. He was used to flirtatious, give and take relationships. He had them with most of his friends. Thomas, he reasoned, would be no different. He finished stacking the cups and pushed himself up so he was sitting atop the island opposite Thomas, legs dangling off the ground. </p><p>“You know, I’ve never actually kissed anyone before.” He remarked conversationally. </p><p>Thomas seemed willing to let the whole thing slide, so then he would be to. <i>And definitely not think about the feel of his lips.</i> He pushed the thought defiantly away. </p><p>Thomas choked. “What!” </p><p>“Yeah,” he mused, then caught himself upon seeing Thomas’ expression. “Oh! Not like that. I’ve been kissed before, but I mean properly. You know. Not for a dare or anything.” </p><p>“Oh.” Thomas stared at him. Then; “You’re kidding.” </p><p>“Uh, no?”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He wondered how pathetic it would sound to say, because I’m me?</p><p>He shrugged instead. </p><p>“Haven’t you wanted to?” </p><p>“Yeah, sure,” he said indifferently. “But, you know. I’m not the easiest to like.” He grinned, hoping it would come across as a joke. </p><p>Thomas looked at him quietly, a hidden, closed expression Alexander couldn’t read masking his features. </p><p>“I like you.” </p><p>Alexander scoffed. “Uh. Yeah, okay.” </p><p>“I do.” </p><p>“Um,” he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “I was under the distinct impression that you hated me, but sure if you say so.”</p><p>Thomas shook his head slightly. “What makes you think that?”</p><p>Was he actually serious? Alexander laughed. “Uh. Let me think. Wow, this is really hard. Oh, how about constantly insulting me for the past two years?”</p><p>“Hey. You did the same.” </p><p>“Yeah, well. You started it.” </p><p>Thomas glared mulishly at the floor. “Once. Once in first year. I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand.” </p><p>Alexander shrugged. “So? It’s fine – it’s what we do.” </p><p>“Right. Yeah.” </p><p>He rolled his eyes at Thomas’ obstinacy. “Relax. Besides, if we didn’t have debate we’d still be doing it anyway.” </p><p>Thomas looked up at him. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, you’re only being nice because you have to pass – I mean, we both have to pass. So, it just works.” </p><p>“Wait, you think that’s why I being nice?” Thomas looked distinctly confused. </p><p>“Uh, yeah?”</p><p>“Well. It’s not.” He glared sullenly at the floor again. “And I never hated you.” </p><p>Alexander was having trouble working out where the hell this conversation was headed. All his previous assumptions were being turned on their head and he wasn’t used to being so wrong. </p><p>“Oh.” He couldn’t think of any other reply. </p><p>Thomas caught his eye, his gaze open and clear. “And I – I’m sorry if I made you think that.” </p><p>“Hey, it’s fine.” He said quickly, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with Thomas’ blatant and sincere honesty. He wondered if he would have to start getting used to it. </p><p>“We’re both to blame…so.” </p><p>Thomas nodded; offered an olive branch smile. The corners of Alexander’s lips twitched in response. </p><p>He took a breath. “Okay. I’ll tell you something?”</p><p>Alexander grinned. “Shoot.” </p><p>“Uh.” Thomas looked as though he already regretted ever opening his mouth, despite his lingering smile. “Wait, fuck. I need alcohol first.” </p><p>Alexander turned, scanning the bottles left on the bench. Spying some half empty cherry vodka, he snagged it, taking a swig with a wince despite its potent sweetness and passed the bottle to Thomas. </p><p>He sipped, pursing his lips, then took a breath. “Okay, uh. Fuck. Speaking in public terrifies me.” </p><p>Alexander stared, disbelieving. “No way!”</p><p>Thomas grimaced. “Yep. Shocking, right?”</p><p>He opened his mouth, eyes going wide as he processed this. “But… but you’re taking <i>law.</i> You have to speak for a majority of your classes. And!” He added at a sudden thought, “you even <i>offer</i> information in discussions and stuff.” </p><p>“Yeah. Well.” Thomas was glowering at the bottle in his hands. “Like I said before. I take law because I have to.” </p><p>He gave a breathy, self pitying laugh. “My hands shake so much when I have debate that I have to keep them in my pockets so people don’t see.” </p><p>“You don’t!”</p><p>“Yep.” He nodded. “Pathetic right.” </p><p>“No?” Alexander had never heard anything less pathetic. Thomas had always seemed so confident, so unabashed, so completely sure of himself – so <i>unreachable.</i>  Everyone, he reminded himself, had parts of themselves that were a little bent; a little rough around the edges - no matter what they tried to make people believe. </p><p>The knowledge that Thomas wasn’t some perfect person Alexander could never even hope to compare with settled in his mind, and he tried to stop the warmth it left there from leaking out in his gaze. </p><p>“I spend so much time studying and working because I think that if I seem intelligent and informed, then people won’t question the fact that I pretty much came from nowhere.” </p><p>Thomas looked at him. “You feel like you have to prove yourself, huh?”</p><p>He nodded, reaching for the bottle again. “Exactly! Everyone here comes from somewhere, you know? They deserve to be here. So I guess I constantly try to prove that I deserve that too.” </p><p>“You do.” </p><p>“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugged. In his mind, he saw a ragdoll puppet being thrown against a wall. </p><p>Thomas was looking at him with such softness that the space between them seemed infinite and non-existent in the same moment. </p><p>He took another swig, wondering if the sweet burn it left searing his throat would be enough to nudge him off the bench and close that distance. </p><p>He took a slightly trembling breath - and then Eliza burst through the door. </p><p>“Oh!” She skidded to a halt, and Lafayette came tumbling in after her. Something heavy and weighted that had hung in the room seemed to be unceremoniously sucked out. </p><p>“There you are! We wondered where’d you’d got to.” She and Lafayette were looking between them. “We thought you might be, well.” She paused awkwardly, twisting her head to look at Lafayette, who had an arm slung over her shoulders. </p><p>He shook his head. “Painful. It’s literally paining me to watch you both.” </p><p>Eliza held out her hands to Alexander, who slid off the bench before stumbling. Maybe it was time to put the bottle down. He smiled lazily at her, taking her hands. </p><p>Lafayette was still shaking his head. <i>"S’il vous plaît sortez-moi de ma misère et dites-moi que quelque chose s’est passé ici.”</i></p><p>
  <i>“Nous parlons encore, si c’est une consolation.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Pas trop.”</i>
</p><p>Alexander was suddenly too tired to even feel annoyed that he couldn’t understand it, and followed Eliza as she lead him through the house to a quiet room and plonked him down on the bed, before curling up next to him. </p><p>“Where is everyone?”</p><p>“Who knows?” She yawned. </p><p>Thomas had brought the bottle with him, and soon enough they were all giggling again, so when Eliza suggested they should probably go Alexander shrugged, catching Thomas’ eye. They were still drunk and giddy, and besides, it was Saturday tomorrow – today – so nothing was stopping them from staying. </p><p> </p><p>It was raining when they finally left, slipping through the break in the fence in the early hours of the morning, the grass wet under their feet. </p><p>Thomas had the splendid idea to walk barefoot, because who needed shoes, anyway. Running through the quad, the rain on their faces was sobering and real, and Alexander slipped into his empty room with only a slight stumble, collapsed onto his bed and fell into a thick, dreamless sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from 'Scorched' - a play translated from French by Wajdi Mouawad. </p><p>Also so I have some options: because of term, weekly updates won't really be possible so would you like regular, but shorter updates, or longer updates but with quite a gap between them? Let me know!!<br/>Because I won't be able to update so much I made a tumblr to give teasers and whatever else, so feel free to come talk to me on there as well! https://superloonyluna.tumblr.com/</p><p>Also I'm not really happy with how this chapter turned out, it was a particular way in my mind and I just couldn't translate it for some reason - so when I get the chance I'll try my best to edit it a bit. </p><p>Anyway, as always, please talk to me and let me know what you think! I have a bunch of assignments due so I might not get around to replying right away, but the email notifications of comments is literally the best part of my week ahhh </p><p>Okay I'll shut up now haha<br/>much love x<br/>- Violet</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A shared burden and the taste of España</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here's another chapter for you even though it's only like three days later to make up for the absolute crap that was the previous update. </p><p> </p><p>DISCLAIMER: there's a flashback here that has mentions of abuse; it's the paragraph written in italics. Please skip it if you're not comfortable with that sort of content. Stay safe &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two days later on Sunday morning, John managed to drag him down to the breakfast hall before he could disappear off to the library. </p><p>“Come <i>on</i>,” he whined, taking a book off the teetering pile Alexander was making against his chest as soon as he placed the next book on top. “It’s <i>Sunday.</i> Breakfast is always good on Sundays.” </p><p>Alexander finally relented at the promise of hash browns. The sunlight was warm and dappled across the oak tables; lazy conversation drifting around them from the scattered couples and groups as they made their way through, pulled down the hall by the slightly shrill voice of Lafayette. </p><p> </p><p>Thomas looked up as they approached, his eyes finding Alexander’s and an easy smile falling to his lips. Alexander’s stomach curled lightly as he returned it, slipping into the bench beside him.</p><p>“Er, what’s going on?”</p><p>Lafayette had turned on John the second he had gotten within arms length and was whacking him repeatedly with a napkin and a torrent of garbled French. </p><p>Thomas laughed softly, watching them. “Did you know that John slept with some girl called Louise after Friday?”</p><p>“What!” He yelped, “No!” He considered jumping across the table to aid Lafayette with his own napkin. “The bastard tells me nothing!”</p><p>“Oi!” He glared at John, who was half cowering, doubled up with laughter. <i>"No somos nada para ti?” – are we nothing to you?</i> </p><p>John caught his eye and relented slightly. “Okay, okay, okay!” He held up his hands in defeat and Lafayette narrowed his eyes, whacking him one last time for good measure before sitting back down on the bench with a huff. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” John rolled his eyes sarcastically, “I didn’t realise I was committing such a heinous crime in not telling you every single thing I do, but it is only <i>Sunday</i> you know. As in, barely a <i>day</i> after.” </p><p>“That, <i>mon enfant,</i> is an age.” Lafayette muttered haughtily, with only a slight air of indignance. </p><p>“Oh, I see, so next time I should come running to find you the second I finish, should I?”</p><p>Alexander felt Thomas shift, and hated that he knew without having to look that Thomas was grinning into his plate. </p><p>“Dirty minded sod.” He muttered, and Thomas kicked him under the table.</p><p>“<i>Oui.</i> That would be nice. Thank you.” Lafayette forked his eggs, smirking and John laughed. </p><p>“Duly noted.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“Er,” he shifted awkwardly. “It’s nothing exciting. We were both drunk, anyway. And I’ve known her for a while – I mean, we’ve been friends for a while, so there was a weird conversation afterwards, but we’re all good now.” </p><p>“So, are you…” Alexander probed, but he already knew the answer from the slight dip pulling at the corner of John’s mouth. </p><p>“No,” He said quickly, shaking his head. “She’s not my soulmate.” </p><p>He gave them all a bright smile Alexander didn’t believe. “It’s okay, though. We’re still going to date I think, even though, well. You know.” </p><p><i>Even though there may not be any point.</i> </p><p>The unfinished sentence hung there, and they all brushed it bracingly aside like cobwebs: sticky but breakable. </p><p>Alexander nodded. “Good idea. It’ll be fine – besides, you’ve only just started going out, or dating, or whatever you’re doing like a night ago, so who knows – you may not even last long enough for it to become a problem.” </p><p>Beside him, Thomas snorted, chocking slightly on his mouthful of mushrooms. “Were you always this negative?”</p><p>Alexander grinned, pulling dishes towards him and starting to fill his plate. “<i>Si.</i> I consider myself the greatest pessimist to have ever lived.” </p><p>Thomas raised a teasing eyebrow. “Big claim.” </p><p>His lips were quirked in a soft smile that was doing unfair things to Alexander’s chest. As if feeling his gaze, Thomas darted his tongue across his lower lip and Alexander almost dropped his spoon. He glanced quickly back down at his plate. Under the circumstances, he had been doing remarkably well at not paying attention to Thomas’s lips. Or just Thomas in general. Really, he deserved some kind of medal for this level of self control. So okay, maybe he was thinking about kissing him. Just a little bit. And only because now he knew what it felt like. How soft his lips were. How they burnt into his own. </p><p>He shook his head. Definitely <i>not</i> thinking about it. </p><p> </p><p>John was laughing. “Don’t mock it till you’ve lived with it.” </p><p>Lafayette glared across the table at him. “What Alex <i>means</i> to say is that he is sure you both are adorable and he is very happy for you.” </p><p>“So, when do we get to meet her?”</p><p>John shrugged. “Uh, I don’t know. Whenever? Hey!” He added suddenly, as though the thought had just struck him. “How’d you even know?”</p><p>“Because, <i>crétin,</i> she came over and asked if we had seen you, and I was like, ‘and who the fuck are you?’ and she was like, ‘oh, I’m Louise,’ as though that was suppose to <i>mean something to me.”</i> He glared pointedly at John. “And so I had to pretend like I knew who the fuck that was so we didn’t look like a group of idiots.” </p><p>“Ah. Oops.” He shrugged, grinning. “Sorry?”</p><p>“Yes. <i>Sorry.</i> Would be nice.” Then he smirked. “She is very lovely, though.” </p><p>John ducked his head around a smile, and Alexander turned to Thomas, forgetting his original plans to huddle up in the library. “Do you have any work that you have to do today?”</p><p>“Er.” He attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. “We both do.”</p><p>“We do?”</p><p>“Yes? What is this? Alexander Hamilton <i>forgetting</i> he has an <i>essay? </i> Should I be concerned. Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”</p><p>“Shut up.” Alexander flicked him, looking around hopefully for more hash browns. The plate was too far across the table to reach and he huffed out in annoyance. Appearing to have followed his gaze, Thomas leaned over easily to pull the plate closer. Alexander rolled his eyes; curse him and his long arms. </p><p>“So are you going to tell me or am I just going to have nothing to turn in.”</p><p>“How can you not remember?”</p><p><i>Maybe I was thinking about other things.</i> He bit into his lip to stop the words bubbling out of him. He wasn’t, anyway - thinking. About anything. </p><p>“The debate went over and wasn’t concluded on Friday, so we were set the essay to close it off.” </p><p>“Ohh.” He groaned. </p><p>“Why? Did you have something else in mind?”</p><p>Alexander wasn’t entirely sure what exactly <i>had</i> been on his mind.</p><p>“Should we go then? Get it done faster?”</p><p>Thomas nodded. “Sure. I’ll have to get my books though.” </p><p>Alexander shoved the last of the hash brown into his mouth. He should really come to breakfast more often just for a plate of these. </p><p>He swallowed, grabbing his books. “Anyway else have stuff to do? We’re going to the library.” </p><p>Lafayette looked up from where he was still interrogating John about Louise. “Some of us,” he said primly, “were able to finish <i>their</i> work yesterday, because they weren’t an idiot and didn’t get blackout drunk on Friday.” </p><p>“Oh, well fuck you then.” Alexander rolled his eyes and hurried off to catch up with Thomas who was already halfway down the hall. </p><p>The sun was warm on his face as they crossed the quad in comfortable silence and he scowled at the people lounging lazily around the grass. It was a <i>Sunday. </i> And it was such a nice day. </p><p> </p><p>Thomas’ dorm room, if possible, was around twice the size of his own, <i>and</i> he and John shared a double room. Alexander stared around, mouth slightly agape at the injustice. </p><p>The room was light and airy, sun spilling in through the window onto crumpled white sheets, bundled up in the middle of the bed, and a slightly haphazard array of scattered clothes. Thomas’ case sat, still unpacked, at the bottom of his open wardrobe, and a pile of books were stacked up on the windowsill. It struck him that he would have never placed Thomas as someone who could be messy, but here they were. </p><p>He tried, unsuccessfully, not to feel a slight pang of jealousy, asking in spite of himself; “How much does this cost?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged, his back to him as he pulled books from under a pile of manuscripts on the desk and stacking them in his arms. “How would I know?” </p><p>He turned around in alarm, seeming to catch himself, and cowered under Alexander’s raised eyebrows. He looked back down at the desk, muttering, as though it would help the situation; “the bathroom’s a joint one, though.” </p><p>“Oh, well, that <i>is</i> a tragedy.” Alexander rolled his eyes. “What a small sacrifice.” </p><p>“Fuck you.” Thomas swept his eyes over the desk one last time, ensuring he had everything before pushing Alexander out and letting the door bang shut behind them as they started back down the corridor. </p><p>“I actually liked sharing better, you know.” </p><p>“So why don’t you.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out quipped; harsh and curt – he really hadn’t. It did before he could help it. The blatant return of their differences slapped his cheek with the familiar reminder. </p><p>“Ah.” Thomas blew out a slightly shaky puff of air as they stepped back out into the quad, this time heading in the direction of the library. </p><p>“I didn’t actually have a choice.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well, ah.” His nose scrunched a little in discomfort, and Alexander felt a small twinge of guilt for biting out. He should really learn how to hold his tongue. </p><p>“I mean, Princeton doesn’t give you an option, like ‘select a shared dorm for less money, and a private room for more.’ It’s kind of, I don’t know. They know how much – or what type of money you come from, and they place you accordingly.” He laughed a little. “A business is a business, I suppose.” </p><p>“Oh.” Shame curled through him. “I didn’t know that.” </p><p>Thomas shrugged. “Why would you?”</p><p>“Sorry.” He muttered. “Didn’t mean to – well. You know.” </p><p>Then he grinned. “Have you even made you bed once in the whole time you’ve been here?”</p><p>“Screw that.” Thomas tried to trip him over, knocking his foot against the back of his knee. He dodged it with a laugh. “What’s the point in that when it’d be ruined again in the evening.” </p><p> </p><p>The library was cool around them, relatively empty except for a few small groups of yawning six years. One girl had her head on the desk and was clearly asleep even though it was eleven in the morning. Alexander wondered if they had been there all night. </p><p>They got a table by a stained glass window and settled down opposite each other. Alexander began to write without opening his books, letting the words consume him, and they worked in near silence, occasionally reaching across the table with a comment; ‘here, have you read about this?’ ‘Are you going to bother bringing the fifth subsection of the legislation into it?” Or often, in Alexander’s case; ‘how can people be so fucking stupid?’</p><p> </p><p>A couple or so hours later, Alexander, deep in thought and more than slightly frustrated after having crossed out the same sentence twice, felt Thomas’ foot nudge against his own. </p><p>“What?” He looked up. </p><p>“Feel like going outside?”</p><p>“Do you not know the meaning of ‘due tomorrow?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged. “We can work outside.” </p><p>His eyes held a softness and Alexander relented. The sun was warm and fond like the smile Thomas offered him, and they lay down, backs to the building and faces to the sky, draped in the dappled light that was sprinkled through the sporadic trees by the lake. </p><p>They were silent for a while, essays momentarily abandoned, the soft lap of the water doing the talking for them. </p><p>The fishbowl sky domed above them, and Alexander stared at it thoughtfully as it hung as though suspended. How strange it was, so big and empty. In his mind, the universe squeezed itself into a ball and rolled itself towards some overwhelming question. </p><p>“I’d like a fish.” He murmured sleepily. </p><p>There was a pause. “A what?”</p><p>“A fish.” He swivelled his head sideways to face Thomas, who cracked an eye open and glanced sideways at him dubiously. </p><p>“<i>Chéri.”</i> Thomas closed his eyes again. “What the fuck.”</p><p>“Oh, come on!” Alexander rolled over and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Please! Let’s get a fish.”</p><p>“And where in the world would we get a fish from?”</p><p>“Er, I don’t know.” Clearly he hadn’t thought this through. “The lake? A pet shop?”</p><p>Thomas smiled without opening his eyes. “Okay.” </p><p>“Really!” He laughed, rolling onto his back again, already thinking of a small round fish swimming contentedly around a bowl. Maybe a little pink one. </p><p>“Yes, despite this being one of the worst ideas you’ve had.” </p><p>“Excuse you, it’s a brilliant one.” He grinned. “I’m quite the genius.” </p><p>“If you say so.” </p><p>It was warm there, under the sun, and Alexander felt comforted in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Or understand. The water was bubbling happily, and the sun drooped as his eyelids flickered. </p><p> </p><p>
  <i>He is nine years old, crouched behind the old, sagging sofa in their living room. His knees are shaking and his heart is loud in his ears but its beat isn’t enough to down out the voices on the other side of the sofa: his backbone. His father’s belly is full of hour old, curdling liqueur, and his heart full of deranged malice; his mother is a puppet and his father is tired of pulling her strings. The puppet is flung, unceremoniously, against the wall. He can hear the bones in her chest rattle. He is frozen behind the sofa – has ventured out too many times in the past to know that nothing good will come of it. His mother’s plea is a soft whimper, and her hopelessness hurts more than what he knows will happen when he stands, pleading - imploring: stop, stop, please just stop. There’s money in the flour tin. His father is shaking the puppet; ‘this is what you give me for a son? This? This! You barren, fruitless witch. You slut!’ Rounding on him, the puppet sagging against the wall. ‘You’re never going to get anywhere, you know that? Good for nothing. Filthy.’ The words echo after his shadow as he strides through to the kitchen. ‘Worthless. Pathetic.’ The sound of the flour tin opening, then thrown on the floor. His father is back, face against his own, close – too close. He can see the spit clinging to the back of his throat. ‘What are you?’ It is thrown at his feet. ‘Nothing?’ ‘Nothing.’ Nodding, spitting in the direction of his crumpled puppet, heaped in a ragged bundle on the floor. The door slamming as he leaves. Slamming again. Again. Again. The sound filling his mind.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Alexander’s eyes snapped open around a gasp of air. The sky above him: the reverberating slams of the door morphing into the soft hum of the lake. He sighed, shaking out his clammy hands; he was used to this. He has lived with this for years. Has revisited that house so often in his mind that sometimes it feels as though he still lives there. He was used to the cold, clenching around his chest, used to the emptiness in his mind, used to stoically pushing his father’s voice out of his head even as his echo continues to whisper; <i>you are nothing.</i> </p><p>What he isn’t used to is the soft heat, seeping though Thomas’ hand on his shoulder, the warm dip of his accent around the murmured question; “you alright?”</p><p>It calmed his skittering heartbeat in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He nodded. </p><p>He lost his father long before the door remained slammed shut, lost him more times than he could count, lost time each time he walked from that living room, each time he rattled his mother’s bones in her chest, each time the flour tin was left rolling around the kitchen floor, each time his name was spat at his feet. His mother, his dear mamá, who had given so much of her heart to him that there was nothing left over for herself, would crawl to him afterwards, and he would cling to her, sitting on the floor amid the ruins of his father’s rage. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you miss her?”</p><p>Thomas had rolled over, their bodies impossibly close, his nose pressing into the crook of Alexander’s shoulder. He wondered how Thomas had known what he was thinking of without even having to open his mouth. It was an incredible relief, not to be asked to explain. When people questioned him he could never find the right words. So he babbled; filling the gaps before questions could be asked. </p><p>“Yeah.” Alexander smiled. “We had nothing, really, you know, but somehow she never made me feel it.” </p><p>Often, against his will, he wondered if she would be proud of him, if she were still alive. In the back of his mind he knew that she would be – of course she would, but he still wished he could hear her say it. </p><p>“Tell me about her.” Thomas’ voice was muffled against his shoulder. </p><p>“Um.” No one really ventured to ask that. People had such a tentative hesitance when it came to talking about people he had lost; as though they were afraid they would scare him just by mentioning it. Sometimes he was scared that if he didn’t think of her, remember what she looked like, how she acted, how she would say certain things, that he would forget her completely. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he started with a slight grin, “she worked in the hospital, and so she had these ridiculously long hours, and she was always called in at weird times so when she came back she was usually completely exhausted. But she loved dancing, and I always knew she was back from a shift because I’d hear the stereo on in the kitchen. Sometimes I’d go down and she’d be spinning around the table in her uniform, with, I don’t know, blood or something on her apron.” </p><p>He had never met someone who could spread their arms with the same careless abandonment; freedom in its purest sense. </p><p>“She taught me to read. She loved poetry.” </p><p>Alexander stared up into the dome above them; under it hung their tiny kitchen. The puppet floated on wings, and danced across the curtain of sky for a last time. </p><p>“She made such good food. Spanish food. She could make something out of nothing.” </p><p>“And,” he smiled. “She had the best laugh.” </p><p>Thomas pulled his head back. “She sounds nice.” </p><p>Alexander nodded. She was. </p><p>They were quiet for a moment, then Thomas swallowed. “My dad died when I was sixteen.” </p><p>His words took a second to filter through Alexander’s brain, settling there and slowly taking root. </p><p>“What!”</p><p>“Yeah. I wasn’t even in the country to say goodbye.” </p><p>“I didn’t - ” he felt awful. “I didn’t know that.” </p><p>He opened his mouth, ‘I’m sorry,’ held just behind his teeth, but he knew what little those words meant and so held his tongue. </p><p>He looked across instead, meeting Thomas’ steady gaze and trying to silently say what he couldn’t put into words. </p><p>It reached between them and settled there; warm and binding. </p><p>Thomas nodded. “I was in France, and I didn’t even know – no one told me he was sick. So I left at the start of term without expecting anything… and then. Well.</p><p>And -” his jaw clenched a little, “I was their first son, and they kind of pummelled all this hope through me. And my family, well, you know who my family is." Thomas' voice was a resentful mutter. </p><p>"People know who we are. They have all their opinions. And dad owned – or started really, this huge law firm. It’s spread out all over the world. I think it’s why they sent me to France, because they were hoping I’d eventually take over the section in Paris. And then he died, and mum kind of turned to me. She didn’t say anything, or explicitly ask, but the expectation was there, so.” </p><p>He trailed off. </p><p>“So, you take law.”</p><p>“So I take law.” </p><p>“Even though public speaking terrifies you.” </p><p>He swallowed. “Yes.” </p><p>Watching him, Alexander’s heart burnt with the dull sorrow of empathy. Families, he thought, were a constant pressure – regardless of where you were from. He had no one, so he had to work to make his name mean something. Thomas’ name was already entrenched deep in prestige, so he had to work to keep its meaning. </p><p>How ironic, the weight draped around their shoulders was so different, yet pressed with the same terrifying, exhausting persistence. </p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, Alexander was holed up in a corner of the library, halfway through the conclusion of the essay he really should have finished hours ago, when he heard the soft call of his name. Looking up he saw Maria walking towards him, a stack of books under her arm, the dim light of the lamps framing her face. </p><p>“Oh, it is you! I wasn’t sure – your head was bent too low for me to really see your face.” </p><p>He smiled, then rubbed his eyes. Damn Thomas for distracting him all afternoon. </p><p>“Yep, it’s me.” He winked. “Unluckily for you.” </p><p>A faint blush filled her cheeks and she ducked her head. “What are you working on?”</p><p>He sighed, glancing around at all his papers. “Just an essay for one of my law classes. It’s due in the morning.” </p><p>“I’m so sorry!” She looked alarmed, “I didn’t mean to distract you.” </p><p>“It’s okay.” Smiling at her, he gestured to the seat next to him. “I could do with a break, anyway.” </p><p>Returning his smile, she sat down. “Me too. I’m meant to be finishing this presentation for Spanish, but the words keep getting stuck together and I can’t seem to pull them apart.”</p><p>Alexander frowned; he’d never actually heard someone put into words what he always felt when writing. </p><p>“What do you study?”</p><p>Maria settled her books in a pile on her lap, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “International studies, but I’m from Columbia, so my Spanish tutorial is kind of like your version of English lit.” </p><p>He grinned, leaning forward. “I didn’t know you were Spanish.” </p><p>“Well, uh, surprise?” She laughed, then, suddenly shy; “what about you? Eliza tells me you speak Spanish as well.” </p><p>“I do.” He nodded. “The island I grew up on was technically English speaking, but my mamá was Peruvian, so…”</p><p>Shrugging, he said around a grin; “So, what else has dear Eliza been telling you about me?”</p><p>“Oh, piss off!” Maria stood, biting back a smile, her cheeks tinged. “Don’t you have an essay to write?”</p><p>“Unfortunately.” He glanced dispassionately down at his page. </p><p>“Well.” She smiled, balancing her books against her hip. “You better get to it then, hey?”</p><p>Alexander watched her walk off before bending back down to his page, re-reading the last few sentences he had written to remember his place. The words flowed of their own accord onto the page, tumbling over themselves, and he let himself get lost in them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from 'Wish you were here' by Pink Floyd. I know I'm straying from my literary roots here, but the song just really fit the chapter so, c'est la vie. </p><p>Also, there's a quote hidden in here from one of my favourite poems, see if you can find it hehe. It may or may not be a massive hint for something in the next couple of chapters. </p><p>Anyway, as always, please send me your thoughts!<br/>much love x </p><p>p.s um chuck pet name suggestions at me please. I've dug myself into this hole and am already regretting it</p><p>update here's the whole verse from the song because it's literally just the chapter but better than I can write:<br/>"How I wish, how I wish you were here<br/>We're just two lost souls<br/>Swimming in a fish bowl<br/>Year after year<br/>Running over the same old ground<br/>What have we found?<br/>The same old fears<br/>Wish you were here"</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. too much or not at all</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>fumbling fingers and the slip of a tie</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello so for some reason I've had a bunch of people gush over the library hair tying scene so because I'm a people pleaser here's another one</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Midway through the next week, Alexander was in the library one morning working through some points for their next debate. He and Thomas had spent breakfast in thorough disagreement over their question: ‘Should the upkeep of weaponry for national security remain a priority even in a time of neutrality?’ Their argument had ultimately culminated with Alexander yelling a rough string of insults after Thomas’ retreating figure as he left for his music class, to which Thomas had responded by blowing him a sarcastic kiss over his shoulder. </p><p>For some reason, Alexander was actually glad they were still arguing. It seemed to be such an ingrained part of their relationship that he felt he would be at a slight loss without it. </p><p>He was startled out of his tunnelled focus that encompassed little beyond the pages scattered around him by the abrupt hiss of his name. He looked up and was met with Angelica’s steely gaze as she and Eliza took a seat opposite him, leaning across the table conspiratorially. </p><p>Angelica clicked her fingers in his face, irritation already clouding her features. “Pay attention!”</p><p>“I hadn’t even said anything!” He protested, as Eliza rolled her eyes.<br/>
“You’re miles away. Stop thinking about this crap for two seconds.” She waved a dismissive hand in the direction of his books. </p><p>“It’s not <i>crap</i>,” he muttered, but his lips twitched. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”</p><p>“Well,” Eliza began, “So you know how out parents host a kind of gala-function type thing every so often?”</p><p>“Yeah?” Alexander rolled his eyes; he had spent many an afternoon listening to Eliza complain about them. </p><p>“Right. So there’s one tonight and we have to go, obviously. But dad’s being a bit of a, well, -” she paused, glancing at her sister. </p><p>“A dick. Basically.” Angelica pursed her lips. </p><p>“Well. Just a little.” Eliza said, unsuccessfully biting back a smile. “Although, that is partially your fault. Anyway, so he wants us to bring dates -” </p><p>“Hey!” Angelica cut across her, voice rising indignantly and some people at surrounding tables threw them a handful of disgruntled looks. “How is that my fault?”</p><p>“Well, if you remember rightly, you were the one who told him you were dating in the first place.”</p><p>Alexander’s eyebrows shot up and Angelica snorted. </p><p>“You know as well as I do that was only to get him to shut up for five seconds.” She put on a high pitched, mocking tone in a crude imitation of her father. “<i>Angelica, when are you going to bring someone home? Angelica, have you forgotten the importance of finding your soulmate? Angelica! You’re getting so old. Angelica! Mehmehmeh.</i>” </p><p>She rolled her eyes and Eliza smiled. </p><p>“Anyway. Well, basically, we need you to be Angelica’s date.”</p><p>Alexander shrugged without fully considering what he was agreeing to. “Sure.”</p><p>“I told you!” Eliza whacked Angelica’s arm lightly. </p><p>“Yeah, but you didn’t even explain it. We’d have to, you know, pretend to be actually dating.” There was a slight hesitation in her voice as she glanced up at him, her defiant gaze failing to mask the faint blush colouring her cheeks. </p><p>He grinned. “That really won’t be a problem,” he held her gaze, then winked. “If I didn’t think you’d bite my head off if I got near you, we could’ve done a lot more than dating.” </p><p>“You complete asshole.” Angelica lobbed one of his own books across the table at him. </p><p>“Hey!” He dodged it, and it flapped uselessly to the floor in a flurry of bent pages. </p><p>“I’m the one doing you a favour here, remember.” </p><p>He turned to Eliza. “So who are you going with?”</p><p>“Maria.” She stood and walked around the table to retrieve the book. </p><p>“What!”</p><p>“That was my reaction.” Angelica glared at her. “What the hell do you think they’re going to say when you come home with her hanging off your arm?”</p><p>Eliza shrugged. “Would you at least <i>try</i> to not be so rude? We’re just going as friends, obviously. I’ll just tell them my date couldn’t make it or something. Anyway,” she eyed Angelica pointedly. “I would think you’d be grateful. It’ll take some of the heat off you, at any rate.” </p><p>Angelica lifted a shoulder as she conceded. “Right.” She slapped her knees briskly, then stood. “So you’re all good with coming?”</p><p>Alexander nodded, and she gave him a small, somewhat reluctant smile. Still, it was a smile nonetheless. </p><p>“We’ll meet you in the quad at five then.” </p><p>She turned to go, and Eliza caught her arm, turning back as they walked off to hiss in a carrying whisper, “don’t forget, it’s our parents – so formal attire, yeah? And when I say formal, I mean: <i>formal</i> formal.” </p><p>Alexander nodded again, offering a small wave as Angelica tugged Eliza off, bending back down towards his papers before he properly registered her words. </p><p>His head snapped up. </p><p>
  <i>Shit.</i>
</p><p>He barely even owned a collared shirt, and he’d ruined his only tie ages ago when he and John had improvised a makeshift sling when the blinds in their dorm had broken. </p><p>He sat there for a moment, staring blankly at his papers and stewing in rapidly mounting panic. His mind flew, almost on instinct and without hesitation to <i>him</i>, and Alexander was out of his seat and scooping up the papers into a jumbled bundle before he even had the time to consider what a ridiculous idea this was. </p><p>Trotting nervously out of the library and through the halls to the third floor, endless scenarios, all equally disastrous, flooded his mind and by the time he made it to the right room his heart was in his throat. Class hadn’t finished yet so the door remained shut against his worry. He stood, alone and jittery in the empty hall accompanied only by the soft sunlight dripping I through the windows lining the corridor and the niggling insistence that everything would go wrong. </p><p>What if Angelica’s parents didn’t like him? What he said the wrong thing? He <i>always</i> said the wrong thing. What if they asked him where he was from? What if he embarrassed her so much Angelica would never want to talk to him again? What if he used the wrong fork at dinner? Eliza always complained about the ridiculous, conservative formality that her parents adhered to. What if he talked to much? Now <i>that</i> was a given. </p><p>Why on <i>earth</i> had he said yes?</p><p> </p><p>His fingers were drumming the rhythm of his worries out onto the books clutched under his arm when the door opened – finally – and a soft cacophony of voices immediately filled the hall as people began to stream out and diverge off in different directions. Another door further down the hall was opened and soon the corridor was full. </p><p>Alexander waited, practically bouncing on the spot. Thomas emerged suddenly, mid laugh, with James and a couple of other people he didn’t know, and Alexander pounced on him, grabbing his hand. </p><p>Thomas jumped, startled at the sudden movement before his expression cleared and he nodded a goodbye to the others without a second thought and acquiescing to Alexander’s persistent tugging. </p><p>“What the hell’s up with you?”</p><p>“I need a tie,” he said breathlessly, gripping Thomas’ forefinger with unnecessary fervour. </p><p>“A what?”</p><p>“A tie! Do you have a tie?”</p><p>“Like…” Thomas was glancing down at him with slight amusement. Alexander felt this was a little unfair, his heart still pattering uncertainly. </p><p>“Like the thing that goes around your neck?”</p><p>“Yes!” Really, of all situations, he had to choose this one to be obtuse. </p><p>“Yes, the thing that goes around your neck. The thing that you have to match to the girl’s dress if you go somewhere together.” </p><p>As soon as the words were out of his mouth a fresh wave of panic washed over him. He hadn’t even asked Angelica what she would be wearing. </p><p>The fear must have shown in his eyes because Thomas frowned, squeezing his fingers slightly. </p><p>The movement brought their joined hands to the forefront of Alexander’s mind. <i>Oh god.</i> Had Thomas initiated that? Or had he? At this point, he wasn’t sure which was worse. Amid the panic, this fact seemed to float around his consciousness; a slight tingling mixing with the anxious knot in his chest. He was holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand. Well, more like a finger. But still; <i>holding it.</i> Holding it! </p><p>“Hey, calm down. What’s this for?”</p><p>Alexander blinked up at him; his mind now juggling both worry and a slight deliriousness that meant words had a lot to filter through to make any sort of impression. </p><p>He sighed, chewing his lip. Thomas’ eyes dropped to his mouth at the action and he stopped quickly. <i>Such a bad habit.</i></p><p>“Eliza and Angelica’s parents do these functions,” he explained, eyes darting around the gradually emptying corridor. “You know, because they’re in some posh social circle and they have to mix with other posh people.” </p><p>Thomas nodded, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I know. Normally we go to them, or uh, host them.” He rolled his eyes, his tone remarkably like Eliza’s whenever she mentioned the events. “Most boring nights of my life, without fail.” </p><p>Alexander’s spirits lifted hopefully. “Does that mean you’re going to this one then?”</p><p>Thomas shook his head and the hope shrivelled in Alexander’s chest. “No, we haven’t been to any for a while because, well. Because of a bunch of stuff.” </p><p>“Oh.” He tried not to sound too disappointed. “Well, anyway. Angelica needs to have a date because her parents are fussy about soulmate stuff, so I have to go with her, and!” He looked desperately up at Thomas. “And! I don’t know anything! I won’t know anyone. What if they ask me something? What if I have to dance! And I don’t have anything to wear.” </p><p>Thomas’ eyes crinkled around a smile. “Stop overthinking it.” </p><p>“I’m not,” he lied automatically. </p><p>“It’ll be fine, her parents won’t bother you much anyway – they’ll be too busy with all the other families they have to network with. And I have stuff you can wear.” </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas squeezed his hand again. “Um. I actually have another class now, but find me after and we can get you something, easy.” </p><p>“What!” His nerves jumped back into action. “You have class? Like, now?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah?”</p><p>Guilt shot through him, his eyes widening in horror. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve shut up!” </p><p>Thomas shrugged. “You looked worried? It’s fine,” he said quickly, catching Alexander’s expression. “I don’t mind.” </p><p>“No, no, no!” Alexander shook his head frantically. “Go! I’m so sorry. You should have said something, you know me, I always talk too much, literally have you heard me? Blah blah blah, I never -”</p><p>“Alex, darlin’,” Thomas rolled his eyes, smiling down at him softly. “Shut up for the love of god.” </p><p>He did, his mind latching onto a single word from that sentence. </p><p>“It’s just an hour and a half. The tutorial. I’ll see you at lunch after?”</p><p>“Sure.” He nodded, thinking now would probably be a good time to let go of Thomas’ fingers but for some reason wanting to prolong the contact. </p><p>They stood in silence for a moment, Thomas looking down at him tenderly. </p><p>“Um,” he said, glancing at the floor, “walk to class with me?”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander shrugged without thinking, looking doubtfully down the corridor until Thomas tugged him the other way. </p><p>He trotted along after him, heart still bubbling. “I really am sorry you know, but see! This is what I mean! I always do this, what if it happens tonight and no one can get a word in edgeways and then they’ll all hate me and it’ll be a huge disaster and everything will go to hell?”</p><p>Thomas glanced back at him over his shoulder as they mounted the stairs to the top floor. “It’s kind of endearing, you know.” </p><p>“Hardly!” Alexander scoffed, “I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing her parents will think.” </p><p>“Then just let Angelica do the talking.” Thomas pursed his lips slightly, “I believe she’s exceptionally good at making herself heard.” </p><p>“Stop that.” Alexander frowned at him. “She’s nice. Sometimes.” He grinned. </p><p>They stepped out of the stairwell and Thomas stopped outside the first classroom. From inside, the faint voice of the professor filtered dimly through the cracks around the doorframe. </p><p>“Anyway. Don’t think about that now, yeah? Do something else until lunch.” </p><p>Alexander nodded. “I was halfway through the debate before they found me.” </p><p>“Good, got all your shitty points down?” Thomas was biting back a smile. </p><p>“They are <i>not</i> shitty. Yours are shitty.” </p><p>“Keep telling yourself that.” </p><p>“Will do.” Alexander let go of his finger with a slight twinge of reluctance. </p><p>“Have fun in class, sucker. Don’t miss me too much.” He winked then instantly regretted it. </p><p>“Ha.” Thomas looked down, one hand on the doorknob. “ I’ll try my best.” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” </p><p>Alexander watched him slip inside the classroom, then started off back down the corridor, thinking he may as well go straight to the great hall and do the rest of the work there while he waited for the class to finish. </p><p> </p><p>They stayed in the hall after lunch, working through and finalising their debate points until it got to around four in the afternoon, and Alexander started fidgeting again. </p><p>Glancing at him, Thomas closed their books and was about to stand when Lafayette swooped down out of nowhere, making them both jump as he dumped his bag onto the table with an unceremonious snort. </p><p>“<i>Américains muets.</i>”</p><p>Thomas smiled wryly. “<i>Et maintenant, Minou?</i>”</p><p>“Everybody here,” – he said, slumping down into the bench opposite them – “are unbearably stupid.” </p><p>“Is.” Alexander corrected automatically before he could stop himself. “<i>Is</i> unbearably stupid.” </p><p>Lafayette glared at him. “Your point?”</p><p>“Nothing!” Alexander withered under his stare. “Just a habit.” </p><p>“Well, break it.” Lafayette snapped, and beside him, Alexander felt Thomas shift slightly. </p><p>“<i>Oi. Tais-toi ou pars.</i>” </p><p>“Sorry, sorry.” Lafayette’s shoulders drooped slightly and he sank onto the table, dropping his chin into his hand. “Anyway, what is up with you?” He added, catching Alexander’s sullen expression.<br/>
“He has to go to one of the Schuyler functions.” Thomas explained, and Lafayette nodded knowingly. </p><p>“Ahhh, <i>je comprends.</i> Those really are the bane of my existence.” </p><p>“And!” Alexander bleated, “and I have nothing to wear!” He was whining, he knew. </p><p>“Are you still going on about that? I can’t believe you don’t even own a jacket.” Thomas rolled his eyes, then turned to Lafayette. “But yeah, he doesn’t, so I was going to find him something.” </p><p>Lafayette sat up. “Oh, yes please. Let us make you pretty, <i>mon ami.</i>”</p><p>Thomas snorted, but stood regardless and the three of them made their way out of the hall. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to tell us what’s wrong?” Alexander asked as they climbed the stairs to Thomas’ dorm room. </p><p>“Oh, it is nothing.” Lafayette brushed it away with a wave of his hand. “My professor is just the biggest idiot.” </p><p> </p><p>Thomas pushed open the door and dumped his books carelessly in a heap on his unmade bed. Alexander watched as Lafayette crossed the room without preamble and began to rifle through Thomas’ suitcase; lying open and unpacked at the bottom of his cupboard. </p><p>He moved forward and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress as Thomas joined in the search, slapping away everything Lafayette pulled out with disgust; the two muttering in rapid French. Surreptitiously, Alexander sneaked a covert glance around the room. Even in the late afternoon, it still held the sun’s soft glow. His gaze halted on Thomas’ desk; still unable to get over the fact that he was so uncharacteristically messy. How he didn’t loose anything, Alexander couldn’t understand. </p><p>On the wall above the desk, Thomas had taped a small, sepia photo. He looked younger in the image, maybe ten years old; still bearing the same unabashed smile and his curls, though slightly shorter, were still falling haphazardly across his forehead. A girl, maybe fifteen, had her arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, her head thrown back in a laugh. Even through the faded print, Alexander could tell that she had the same dark caramel skin, the same rounded curve to her nose, and he guessed she must be Thomas’ sister. Around her neck was a thin chain ending in a small, oddly shaped pendant, and Alexander craned his neck trying to get a better look, wondering why it vaguely reminded him of something. </p><p>“<i>Voilà!</i>”</p><p>Lafayette turned suddenly, making Alexander jump. He was brandishing a soft light blue dress shirt made of something that Alexander recognised dimly as silk. Trust Thomas to own clothing in such ridiculous fabrics. </p><p>“Do you have pants?” Thomas asked, pairing three different ties against the shirt before discarding two with an appalled snort. </p><p>“Er.” He paused, awkwardly aware of the fact that he didn’t own a single item of clothing that could be paired with anything of Thomas’ without him looking like a comedy act. </p><p>“<i>Ah, mon amor.</i>” Lafayette shook his head. “No matter. I’ll fetch you something, I think we’re about the same size, <i>non?</i>”</p><p>Alexander shrugged, and Lafayette nodded decisively before hurrying from the room. </p><p>“Hey,” he said, pulling Thomas’ attention away from the ties. “Is that your sister?”</p><p>Thomas followed his gaze, staring silently at the photograph for a moment before answering. </p><p>“Yeah.” He paused, as though on the brink of saying something else but seemed to think better of it, instead dropping the shirt and tie into Alexander’s lap. </p><p>“Right. What are we going to do about your hair?”</p><p>Alexander bristled. “What’s wrong with it?” He had only just washed it this morning. In comparison to its usual wilted state, he considered this a large achievement. </p><p>Thomas laughed. “Nothing. But we might have to tie it back. Did Eliza warn you how formal these things are?”</p><p>He seemed to hesitate for a second before reaching out as though on a whim, and running his fingers lightly through the ends. “May I?”</p><p>Alexander nodded mutely, and Thomas moved to sit behind him, combing out a piece on one side with his fingers before tugging lightly on alternative sections. Alexander realised with a slight jolt that he was braiding it. He resisted, with some difficulty, the mounting urge to lean back into his touch. </p><p>“Your hair is so soft.” </p><p>Thomas’ quiet murmur didn’t help the situation, and Alexander grappled for a panicked moment for something to say in an attempt to dissolve the tightness in his chest. </p><p>“Guess what!” He started, remembering suddenly. </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“I got a new tattoo this morning!”</p><p>“What!” Thomas’ fingers jerked sharply in his hair and Alexander winced slightly. </p><p>“Yeah! It’s on the back of my shoulder, so I only actually found out because John asked if it had always been there.” </p><p>“Oh.” Thomas pulled the rest of his hair back, twisting a band around it. He stood, walking to the case and rummaging for a second before pulling out a ribbon. Alexander scoffed at it. </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Nothing interesting.” He tried, without much success, to fight the stab of disappointment that curled through him. It was so rare that he actually got a new tattoo, and this one was so apparently meaningless that he couldn’t even imagine a story behind it. </p><p>“It’s just a circle. Like a band.” </p><p>“Oh,” Thomas said again, looping the ribbon around Alexander’s tied hair. The door flew open and Lafayette bustled in. </p><p>“Ah. Playing hairdressers now, are we? How lovely.” </p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes as Lafayette came over to scrutinise. “Actually, that’s kind of nice.” He nodded. “Tasteful. <i>C’est bon.</i>” </p><p>He draped a jacket and pants over Alexander’s lap and dropped a pair of shoes at his feet. “So, I brought these as well because the thought of you in this idiot’s jacket is pure hilarity.”</p><p>Alexander scowled up at him, but scooped up the clothes regardless and moved off to the bathroom to change. The shirt was impossibly soft and, to Alexander’s dismay, smelled distinctly of Thomas. The slightly ludicrous desire to bury his nose in it overwhelmed him briefly, and he pushed the thought resolutely away before he could do something stupid, like act on it. </p><p>Picking up the tie by way of a distraction, he rolled his eyes at the ridiculous floral pattern then attempted to tie it. After a few moments, however, he gave up. </p><p>“What the hell is this crap?”</p><p>He waved it, flag like, in front of them. </p><p>“It’s called fashion, dimwit.” Thomas’ eyes raked over him. </p><p>Alexander glared until he raised his eyebrows. “Please tell me you know how to tie it?”</p><p>“I do.” He straightened indignantly. </p><p>Thomas looked down, biting his lip as he shook his head slightly. Alexander turned to go back into the bathroom again rather than admit defeat, and struggled fruitlessly for a few more seconds before Thomas’ frame appeared behind him in the mirror. </p><p>“Having trouble I see.” The corners of his mouth were working furiously, as though he was struggling not to laugh. </p><p>“Fuck you.” </p><p>“If you ask nicely.” </p><p>Alexander turned around and whacked him weakly on the shoulder. “Imbecile.” </p><p>“At least I know how to tie this.” He brushed Alexander’s hands away impatiently, eyes trained on the knot as he looped the material together. Alexander took the opportunity to let his eyes drift over Thomas’ face, his gaze halting, unwillingly, at his lips. The sudden memory of how they felt pressed against his own filled him. He swallowed. </p><p>“Stop that.” </p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“Looking. I’m trying to concentrate.” </p><p>He grinned. “Ah! Irresistibly distracting, am I?”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “Hardly.” </p><p>He grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around so they were both facing the mirror. </p><p>Alexander scowled at his reflection. </p><p>“Hey, what’s that look for?” Thomas looked down, and Alexander felt his hand brush, almost imperceptibly, over the small of his back. The air in the room was suddenly thick. </p><p>Alexander’s eyes were fixed, against his will, on Thomas’ lowered ones. “<i>Je pense que vous êtes belle.</i>”</p><p>“Have you two gotten lost in here?”</p><p> Lafayette appeared around the doorframe and they both jumped. Thomas’ hand darted to the back of his neck awkwardly. </p><p>“Ah, <i>amor!</i> You will blow them away. You should probably hurry up though.” </p><p>“What time is it?” The panic he’d been keeping at bay the whole afternoon came creeping back through his veins. </p><p>“Almost five?”</p><p>“Shit,” he muttered, his hand jumping distractedly to his hair. Thomas swatted it aside. </p><p>“Do you want me to walk down with you?”</p><p>Alexander shook his head in a blatant lie, and Lafayette threw himself down on the bed, pulling a book out of his bag. Thomas rolled his eyes and began chivvying him out the door, turning to call over his shoulder; “I’ll be back in ten.” </p><p> </p><p>Alexander’s fingers knotted together of their own accord as they walked down the hall. <i>What if what if what if.</i></p><p>Thomas’ shoulder nudged his own. “Stop thinking. It’ll be fine. You’ll be with Angelica the whole time, anyway.” </p><p>“Not the whole time.” He wished he could share some of Thomas’ certainty. “Won’t she have to talk to people?” </p><p>Thomas shrugged. “Probably. But you’ll be okay,” he added quickly, catching Alexander’s stricken expression. “Trust me.” </p><p>He pushed the door open and they stepped out into the shadowy quad, still dimly lit by the late afternoon sun. Across from them, Alexander could see Angelica and Eliza leaning against the edge of the building. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Alexander turned, looking up at him. “What?”</p><p>“Afterwards, when you get back, come find me.” </p><p>“Why?” he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. </p><p>Thomas shrugged a shoulder, lips quirking up in a small smile. “I have an idea.” </p><p>“Okay,” he said slowly, “where will you be?”</p><p>“My dorm.” Thomas looked down, before giving him a light shove in the direction of the two sisters. “Don’t dance with any pretty boys.” </p><p>Alexander snorted. “Pretty boys don’t dance with me.” </p><p>He started off across the quad, lifting his wrist up to his nose and letting the lingering smell of Thomas that clung to the shirt hum through him, telling himself there was nothing wrong with a bit of moral support. </p><p> </p><p>Eliza smiled brightly as he neared. “Look at you!” </p><p>Both of them were wearing dresses of soft, floating material Alexander didn’t even want to guess the price of. </p><p>Angelica’s eyes slid over him. “Well, well. The country boy cleans up it seems.” </p><p>“For christ’s sake.” He rolled his eyes, leaning against her affectionately. “Where’s Maria?”</p><p>“Coming.” Eliza pointed across the grass. </p><p>She joined them, offering Alexander a smile before linking her arm through Eliza’s. </p><p>The four of them made their way out of the university gates, Alexander and Angelica trailing behind, both unanimous in their reluctance to put any sort of haste into their arrival. </p><p>Alexander slid into the plush leather seat of the Schuylers’s car, his shoulder pressed comfortably against Angelica’s, and listened to Eliza’s lively chatter as she introduced their driver and rattled on about what to expect in answer to Maria’s questions. He caught Angelica’s morose glower in the rear view mirror and turned to the window to hide his smile, pressing his nose against the collar of the shirt and promising himself it would be the last time he would do so as he let the faint hint of coconut wash away his nerves.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is some wise words from Sylvia Plath</p><p>Anyway feel free to rant at me in the comments (and give me a reason to procrastinate studying for finals pls pls)<br/>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. rob the prison of its prey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>an outrageous suggestion and a hint of jealousy</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, so I'm back from the misery that is neuroscience finals. Why I chose this godforsaken degree is beyond me. </p><p> </p><p>This chapter was criminally hard to write, and I know it's not the best but please be kind to it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Schuyler’s house was large, grand, and old enough to be tasteful. Alexander had never been anywhere like it. A large, open windowed room that was something like the great hall at the university had been decked out with tables surrounding an open space in the middle that Alexander presumed was intended for dancing, but for the past couple of hours had simply been filled with people mingling amid soft conversation. </p><p>Alexander had survived by clinging tightly onto Angelica’s arm and avoiding as much of the discussion as was possible. Angelica’s mother had spotted them at one point, at which Angelica’s eyes had gone wide and she’d fled in the other direction before Alexander had time to yell at her to stay. </p><p> </p><p>He had only just escaped Catherine Schuyler’s polite interrogation when Angelica found him skulking at one of the tables in the corner of the room. </p><p>“Why, look who it is,” he glared up at her reproachfully. “Thank you so much for leaving me.” </p><p>Angelica grinned, sitting down in the chair next to him. “Duty called.” </p><p>“Clearly,” he raised a teasing eyebrow. “Having fun?”</p><p>“The time of my life,” she said through gritted teeth, glaring at the distant figure of Catherine. </p><p>“Ah, she can’t be <i>that</i> bad.”</p><p>“To you, maybe not.” Angelica pursed her lips. “She hasn’t spend years demanding <i>you</i> find a soulmate.” </p><p>“No, but now you <i>have</i> one,” he leant forward with a wink and she slapped him lightly across the cheek. </p><p>“Stop that. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”</p><p>“Ah, yes,” he slumped back in his seat, a list of all the things he could have possibly done wrong flitting through his mind. “The beginning of all thrilling conversations and nothing I should be afraid of.” </p><p>Angelica ignored him. “Alex. What the fuck is going on with you and Jefferson?”</p><p> </p><p>Ah. And really he should have seen this coming. </p><p>“Jefferson?” He echoed, wondering, slightly annoyed, why she thought she had a right to question him when he was the one doing her a favour. </p><p>“<i>Yes.”</i> She hissed, narrowing her eyes. “<i>Jefferson.</i>”</p><p>“What about him?”</p><p>She gazed at him steadily, her expression cold and hard. “Are you really going to play that card? A little insulting, but fine. What is going on <i>between</i> you.” </p><p>He shrugged a half shoulder, glancing off absently around the room. “Nothing really.” He said truthfully, looking back at her and frowning slightly at the hurt that coloured her expression. </p><p>“Then may I ask who this belongs to?” She jabbed at Thomas’ shirt. </p><p>He made a face. “Yeah, it’s his – but so what? I’m just borrowing it, that doesn’t mean what you think it means, wait,” he paused, “what even <i>are</i> you thinking?”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Alex,” she snapped, and the hurt was replaced with barely contained annoyance. “Do you think I’m blind?”</p><p>“We’re friends,” he told her firmly, because they were. </p><p>“You two don’t look at each other the way friends do.” </p><p>“Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you have to project that into everyone else’s relationship with him.” </p><p>“Believe it or not,” she said coolly, “this has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel about him. I’m just worried.” </p><p>“Why?” He shrugged. “I’m fine.” </p><p>She pursed her lips. “Because, dumbass, I care about you. And I don’t want you to get hurt.” </p><p>“Angelica, I’m not going to get hurt because there’s nothing there to get hurt over.” </p><p>“Really?” Her eyebrows rose disbelievingly. “<i>Really?</i> So you can look me in the eye and tell me honestly that there is absolutely nothing going on between you?”</p><p>He looked at her. “Yes.” </p><p>She gazed at him for a moment longer before settling back into her seat, looking away from him across the room. He followed her gaze to her parents, seated amid a crowded table. He looked back at Angelica in time to see her scowl, the silken folds of her dress hunching slightly as she slumped further down into the chair. </p><p>They lapsed into silence for a moment, and Alexander thought she might have laid the conversation to rest for now. </p><p>But Angelica was Angelica, and he should have known better. </p><p>“So.” She leant her head against the back of the chair, swivelling her neck so she could look at him. “Do you think he’s your soulmate?”</p><p>“What!” Alexander yelped, completely thrown. “Where the hell did that come from?”</p><p>She shrugged. “Do you?”</p><p>“Uh, no.” He scoffed at the very thought, imagining Thomas’ disgusted snort if he had been here. “You know I don’t care about soulmate stuff, anyway.” </p><p>“Sure.” She said easily, like she knew she was messing with his brain and was perfectly happy about it. “But you’d be lying if you said the thought hadn’t occurred to you, right?”</p><p>“Fine.” He conceded reluctantly, “once, and only briefly.” And okay, so maybe that was a lie. “But,” he rushed on, “doesn’t everyone think that every time they meet someone new?”</p><p>“Sure,” she said again, a slight smile tugging her lips. </p><p>Alexander scowled at her. “Don’t you dare look so fucking smug.” </p><p>Her smile grew. “I’m not!” Then she groaned, and Alexander looked up to see Catherine making her way towards them. </p><p>“Fucking hell. Hide me.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to borrow behind him.</p><p>“Um, I think <i>not.</i>” He pressed his back firmly into the chair. “This is called payback.” </p><p>Angelica’s finger’s scrabbled against the material of his jacket, and he laughed, bowing his back off the chair and looking up to see Maria standing over them, biting back an amused grin. </p><p>“Um, am I interrupting?”</p><p>Angelica peered over his shoulder. “My mother.” She said darkly, as though that would explain everything.</p><p>“Right,” Maria said slowly, looking behind her doubtfully, then back at Alexander. “Do you feel like dancing?”</p><p>“Dancing?” He echoed, “No one else is.”</p><p>“So?” She shrugged, “we can be the first ones.”</p><p>Alexander looked from her to where Catherine had disentangled herself from whoever had accosted her momentarily, and decided he could risk Angelica’s wrath if it meant avoiding more questions he didn’t know how to answer. </p><p>“Sure.” He stood, taking her offered hand.</p><p>“Oh, that’s right.” Angelica blustered, sitting up. “Sure thing, you go! Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine!” </p><p>“Good to know.” He shot her a grin as Maria pulled him away and her scowl deepened. </p><p>“Asshole!” </p><p> </p><p>Maria led him through the crowd and over to the piano on the opposite side of the room, hidden away in the corner in a way that made Alexander think Angelica’s parents had assumed it would be ignored. The pianist smiled at them as Maria looped her arms around his neck, seeming to be grateful that at least a few people weren’t just talking over her playing. </p><p>Alexander let Maria move him is small circles tilting his head to catch her upturned gaze before noting the slight sadness that seemed to tug at her smile. </p><p>“Hey, <i>qué pasa?” What’s up?</i></p><p>“Nothing.” </p><p>Then she sighed. “Although, maybe you would understand.” </p><p>“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “People tell me I’m comically oblivious.” </p><p>Maria laughed quickly before sobering. “It’s just hard, you know? Like I know she doesn’t mean it or anything, because she doesn’t even realise – but I always feel a little out of my depth around her.” </p><p>“Er.” Alexander wondered if his intelligence had all been a ruse and he had actually been incredibly stupid the whole time. “Who are we talking about?”</p><p>“Eliza?” Maria sighed glumly. </p><p>“Right…” he said slowly. “And, uh, what about her?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know. She’s just got a lot going on, see? Like just about <i>everyone</i> knows her, and I barely know anyone outside my grade, and she’s got this huge influential family and my parents are immigrants who barely speak English and who Americans want nothing to do with even though they’re the <i>nicest</i> people.” </p><p>Alexander stayed silent for moment, his brain working furiously as he tried to catch up. Had he missed something? Maybe Maria had mentioned something before and he just hadn’t been listening properly. That sounded like him. </p><p>Dear lord, girls were confusing. </p><p>“Okay.” He tried not to sound like he didn’t have a clue what was going on. “So we’ve established that Eliza’s popular and her family are posh, and that’s bothering you because...” </p><p>“Well, she’d never look at <i>me</i>, would she?”</p><p>“Oh!” The realisation suddenly hit him, and he mentally kicked himself for not getting there faster. “You <i>like</i> her?”</p><p>Maria shrugged, a little defiant. “Maybe? A little?”</p><p>“Ah,” he scrunched his nose. “How adorable.” </p><p>“Shut <i>up.</i>” </p><p>“But seriously, I don’t get what the issue is. So what if she’s popular? You’re friends, aren’t you? Go talk to her.”</p><p>“Uh, I think the fuck not.” She raised her eyebrows. “And isn’t that a bit hypocritical of you?”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>She glared at him until he relented. </p><p>“Sorry. But you know,” he offered, brightening, “she hasn’t found her soulmate yet, if that’s any consolation.” </p><p>Maria nodded, unconvinced, a small crease puckering her forehead. </p><p>“Do you think,” he paused, wondering if it was the best thing to say. “Do you think maybe she might feel the same way?”</p><p>Maria scoffed. “Hardly.” </p><p>He glanced down at her and caught the hurt bleeding into her eyes even as she brushed off his comment. </p><p>“I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Yeah.” She looked up at him. “Sucks, huh?”</p><p>“Sure does,” he replied without even realising what he was agreeing to. Then; “wait,” he started as the thought struck him, “why did you think I’d understand? I mean, I do, but just…why?”</p><p>She shrugged. “I don’t know. Thomas?”</p><p>“What <i>is</i> it with everyone tonight!” He blustered, “You’re the second person who’s brought him up. We’re friends. <i>Friends.</i> Why does no one understand that?”</p><p>“Oh!” She gasped, bringing a hand from around his neck to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry! Oh my gosh.” She caught his incredulous expression and started to laugh. “I thought you two were together or something.”</p><p>“What!” Honestly, this was all kind of funny. He made a mental note to tell Thomas about it later, simply to see his horrified expression. “Whatever for?”</p><p>“Uh,” a faint blush had filled her cheeks. “I don’t know – I just kind of assumed.” </p><p>“Well, stop.” He rolled his eyes in an attempt to cover the small twist in his stomach. “Because there really isn’t anything to assume.” </p><p>“Well,” she grinned, glancing over his shoulder, “if you’re not with Thomas, I’ll have you know that there’s a guy over there who’s been eyeing you up for the past ten minutes.” </p><p>“Where?” He made to crane his head round to look and Maria shook him lightly. </p><p>“Don’t look, you idiot!” She laughed, shaking her head. “Maybe you should ask him to dance?” </p><p>“Okay,” he nodded, pushing all Thomas related thoughts from his mind. “Okay, maybe I will.” </p><p> </p><p>It was only later, much later, after more dancing, an inevitable conversation with Catherine that he hadn’t been able to avoid the fifth time she found him, a promise to treat Angelica well – which was hilarious considering she would never let anyone stay in her presence long enough to do anything else, after Eliza’s rather tearful goodbye to her younger sister when, squashed again in the back of the Schuyler’s car on the way home, listening to Maria making quiet jokes in an attempt to stifle Eliza’s muffled sniffles, that Alexander allowed himself to acknowledge, in some small, distant section of his brain he normally succeeded in placidly ignoring, that those words hurt, just the slightest bit. </p><p>He didn’t know what exactly he wanted to be there, but the blatant <i>lack</i> of something nudged at his conscience more than he cared to admit. </p><p> </p><p>He said goodbye to the girls at their dormitory, and Angelica gave him a light kiss on the cheek in a rare display of affection that left him feeling slightly mollified. </p><p>“Thanks for coming,” she smiled at him through the darkness. “I know it doesn’t actually show but it means a lot, you know.” </p><p>“Of course.” He reached out to tug on her hand. “Anytime.”</p><p>“Right.” He gave them each a brief hug and allowed Eliza to fuss over his untied hair ribbon for a moment before disentangling himself. “Sweet dreams, ladies. I have to return this shirt.” </p><p>Angelica snorted, and despite the dark Alexander knew she was rolling her eyes. “I think it’ll be you having the <i>sweet dreams.</i>”</p><p>“Asshole,” he called down as he started up the stairwell. “What happened to being nice?”</p><p>Eliza pushed open the dormitory door and the soft glow of the lamp caught on Angelica’s grin. </p><p>“Well, I have to go back to my roots eventually. Can’t always be unexpected, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>Alexander climbed the rest of the stairs, grinning at the thought that <i>nice</i> was considered unexpected for Angelica’s standards. His grin widened when he saw the small crack of light seeping out from under Thomas’ door.</p><p>He paused to wipe the smile off his face before pushing it open. </p><p>“Ah, look at you. What a scholar.” </p><p>Thomas was hunched over his desk, face dangerously close to the page and scribbling away furiously under the small glow of a lamp. It was squashed atop a stack of books teetering alarmingly close to the edge of the desk and Alexander took a moment to marvel at the sheer amount of <i>stuff</i> that Thomas had managed to cram onto such a tiny space. </p><p>He dropped onto the edge of the bed as Thomas straightened and turned with a small smile, pushing the round frames of glasses up his nose from where they had slipped. </p><p>Alexander tried not to take too much comfort from the warmth of his smile. </p><p>“So? Survived?”</p><p>Alexander scrunched his nose, absently tugging at the tie still tightly secured around his neck. “Yeah. It was all right. Though I don’t know how Angelica’s going to get out of this one, because now her entire family is under the impression that we’re a couple.” </p><p>“Lucky Angelica.” </p><p>“Hilarious.” He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t know you were blind.” </p><p>Thomas snorted. “Dickwad. I’m not <i>blind,</i> exactly. They’re only for reading.” He pushed the frames self-consciously up his nose again. </p><p>“Sure.” Alexander grinned. “I’ve never seen them before though.” </p><p>“No, well. Usually I forget them.” Then he smirked. “Doesn’t go with the look.” </p><p>“Well, fuck you for being posh then. They’re adorable.” </p><p>Alexander had meant it as a joke, to jab him, because they were, and it was annoying him. But Thomas looked up. </p><p>“Really?”</p><p>He swallowed, hands suddenly clammy. “Absolutely <i>delicious</i>, darling,” he said, mustering the strongest English accent he could. </p><p>“Fuck off.” Thomas lobbed a screwed up ball of paper at him and he dodged unsuccessfully. </p><p>“What were you working on?”</p><p>“Music,” Thomas groaned. “What else?”</p><p>“You know,” he said conversationally, swinging his legs against the edge of the bed, “for a subject you claim to love you sure do complain about it enough.” </p><p>“Just because I like it doesn’t mean it’s not a fucking <i>pain</i>.”</p><p>‘No,” Alexander looked at him seriously, “god forbid you actually have to <i>work</i> at something to get good at it.” </p><p>Thomas pressed his lips together as he bit back a smile. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Alexander stretched back on the bed, ignoring how Thomas’ eyes followed the movement. The sheets were criminally soft. For a moment he entertained the idea of simply rolling over and falling asleep right there. </p><p>“Are you going to tell me why you told me to come here at this ridiculous hour?”</p><p>“Maybe.” Thomas grinned. “Close your eyes.” </p><p>“I hope you’re joking,” he said dryly. “Does it look like I have a death wish?”</p><p>“Don’t feel like flirting with the devil I take it?”</p><p>Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Not particularly.” </p><p>“Shame.” Thomas stood, eyes capturing Alexander’s face before holding his gaze. “I do on a daily basis.” </p><p>He stretched his arms over his head, back cracking a little and Alexander’s eyes slipped guiltily to the small strip of skin visible over the waistband of his trousers before he could help it. </p><p>“You should try it some time,” Thomas grinned with a wink that left Alexander’s mouth dry. “A bit of risk never hurt anyone.” </p><p>He paused as he reached out to open the door of his wardrobe, and Alexander sat back up. “I thought I told you to shut your eyes.” </p><p>“And I thought I told you to stuff it,” he said, shutting his eyes regardless, because this was Thomas, and for some reason he wasn’t in the habit of saying no to things he really <i>should</i> be saying no to around him. </p><p>“You know,” he continued, because it also seemed he was incapable of keeping his mouth shut. “Your tie was a big hit. Angelica especially liked it. And then told me I had no style when I scoffed at it.” </p><p>“You really <i>do</i> have no style.” Alexander could hear Thomas’ smile. “Did she say that before or after she knew it was mine.” </p><p>Alexander grinned. “Before. After I told her it was yours she agreed with me.” </p><p>Thomas snorted, and Alexander felt his foot nudging his own. “Right. Open.” </p><p>He did, staring dubiously up at Thomas who had moved to stand in front of him, hands behind his back and a barely concealed look of glee across his face. </p><p>He bit back a smile. “Should I be concerned? You seem worryingly happy.” </p><p>Thomas ignored him. “So, you know the other day, when you said -”</p><p>“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Alexander cut across him. “I say a god awful amount of things, you know. We could be here for hours if you start sentences like that.” </p><p>“Will you shut up? Let me finish.” </p><p>“I was just proving my point.” Alexander grinned. “Literally.” </p><p>“Really? That part had skipped my notice,” Thomas drawled dryly. “The other day when you said you wanted a fish.” </p><p>“Oh god.” Alexander leant sideways, trying to get a view of Thomas’ hands but they were twisted out of sight. “You don’t have some poor thing wriggling back there, do you?”</p><p>“Fuck you!” Thomas scowled, aiming a kick at his shin. “What do you take me for?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past you.” </p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “No, you idiot. I have this.” </p><p>He produced a round glass bowl. “For, you know, a fish.” </p><p>“Oh my god, you didn’t!” He bounced up. “Are you serious! Where did you even get that thing from?”</p><p>“The kitchens?” Thomas shrugged. </p><p>“No! Where are we going to get one?”</p><p>“Er.” Thomas scratched his neck. “Okay, so technically I haven’t thought this through. The lake? I’m sure there are fish in there.” </p><p>“Okay!” He knew he should feel a little embarrassed about the level of his excitement but honestly at this point it was slightly late for that. “Can we go now?”</p><p>Thomas smiled. “Don’t you think we should wait ‘till morning? We’ll be able to see better in the light – otherwise we might catch a tadpole or something by mistake.” </p><p>“Now.” Alexander said firmly, standing up as Thomas shook his head in resigned amusement, moving back towards his case. </p><p>“Impatient as always. Well, luckily for you I also brought a torch.” </p><p>“Ah, you think of everything,” he teased, already halfway out the door. </p><p> </p><p>The air was slightly chilly as they slipped out of the dorm suite and across the grounds to the lake, the torch casting a flickering light over the damp grass. They reached the water, lapping softly at the bank, and Thomas set the torch down on a rock. </p><p>Alexander peered over the edge of the bank into the inky blackness and was suddenly less sure than he had been in the warm glow of Thomas’ room. </p><p>“Uh,” he began doubtfully, “so what now?”</p><p>Thomas grinned, unperturbed. “I don’t know? This was your crazy idea, remember?”</p><p>“Actually, it was yours,” he said, purely to save his pride because it <i>was</i> his idea and he had no grounds for argument. </p><p>Something moved suddenly in the water, casting undulating ripples in all directions. Alexander jumped, scrambling back and Thomas laughed. </p><p>“Scared?”</p><p>“Hardly,” he bit out defiantly, moving back to the edge out of pure spite. “Give me the bowl.” </p><p>“What’s the plan then?” Thomas asked, passing it and kneeling down in the grass beside him. </p><p>“Well,” he said slowly, thinking back to when he was five years old, and his mother had taken him down to the small jetty at the docks in their village. </p><p>
  <i>Fish swim in the opposite direction to the current.</i>
</p><p>He hesitated for a moment before leaning over and letting his hand fall into the water. It was so cold it felt like it was squeezing his fingers. Ignoring Thomas’ mutter of confusion, he twisted his arm until he could feel the water pressing against his palm. </p><p>Pulling his hand back, he was about to grab the bowl when, grinning, he reached over instead and pressed his hand, still dripping with freezing water, across Thomas’ cheek – earning a gasp of surprise and a hissed “son of a <i>bitch.</i>”</p><p>His grin widened, before he dipped the bowl into the lake with the rim facing in the same direction his palm had been.</p><p>“So, this is the plan I assume?”</p><p>“Shh,” he muttered, leaning over to peer into the water and wishing he could actually see.</p><p>“Do you want the torch?”</p><p>He shook his head, straining his eyes. “No, it’s okay. The light will probably scare them away.” </p><p>After a few moments he lifted the bowl out and held it to the light. When the only thing he saw was water, he replaced back in the lake. </p><p> </p><p>Thomas watched silently as he tried twice more before anything happened. </p><p>“Look!” </p><p>Reaching out for the torch, Thomas leaned over the bowl next to him, angling the light so they could both see properly. Two little fish were swimming around frantically, seemingly startled by the sudden light. </p><p>“Well, look at that.” Alexander could hear Thomas’ smirk. “Perhaps you should change careers. Screw law and become a fisherman.” </p><p>“Fuck off.” Alexander turned to give Thomas a well-deserved shove, but found he was already watching him. Alexander stopped abruptly at the softness in his gaze. His eyes were impossibly dark. </p><p>Thomas looked down after a beat, and Alexander was still frozen to the spot. “So, are you going to pick one?”</p><p>He nodded, turning his attention quickly back to the bowl. One fish was slightly larger than the other, but he rather liked the little one. Its’ scales were a light yellow – maybe golden in a warmer light. </p><p>“Oh, I was going to tell you,” he said, remembering suddenly as he dropped his hand into the bowl, struggling to trap the larger fish gently against the side. “I thought you’d find it funny – I was talking to Maria and she was convinced we were a couple.” </p><p>“Hah, what?”</p><p>“I know!” He let out a laugh, remembering her genuine confusion. “Anyway I told her ‘like hell we are.’ I mean, how ridiculous.” </p><p>He could feel himself blushing and hated it, hoping to all in hell that the light was too dark for it to show. </p><p>Thomas was quiet for a moment, his expression blank before he grinned. “That <i>would</i> be ridiculous. And completely hilarious.” </p><p>“That’s what I told her.” He rolled his eyes, relief washing through him at the apparent fact that Thomas <i>hadn’t</i> seen, and finally closing his fist around the struggling fish, scooping it out and letting it fall with a small splash back into the lake. </p><p>When he turned back Thomas had a handful of small stones and was dropping them one by one into the bowl with slightly more force then necessary. </p><p>“Careful!” He said reproachfully, and Thomas smirked. </p><p>“Relax, darlin’.” </p><p>It rolled deliciously off his tongue and Alexander’s heart pounded unnecessarily in his chest. Feeling slightly annoyed at the effect one word, one offhand comment had on him, he turned back to the lake in a small act of defiance. He felt this was a little unfair. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have this sort of advantage. He wondered, briefly, if Thomas was doing it on purpose. Maybe it was a joke to him or something. If so, then screw him. </p><p>Then he grinned. Two could play at this game. </p><p>Pulling some pondweed from the edges of the bank he turned back around and placed it in the bowl, letting it float on the surface of the water. </p><p>“You got your godforsaken fish. You happy now?” Thomas shook his head, smiling slightly. </p><p>“Utterly.” Alexander gazed across at him, before saying softly; “thank you.” Heart beating loud in his chest, he leant across before Thomas could reply, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. He was growing increasingly annoyed about the fact that this was making him more flustered than he cared to admit, and he was supposed to have the advantage here. </p><p>Thomas stilled, lips slightly parted as he stared at him and Alexander grinned in spite of himself. <i>Told you I could play.</i></p><p> </p><p>He stood, holding the bowl carefully then groaned, looking down at his trouser legs, the front of which were damp from the grass. </p><p>“You have yourself to blame for that, you know.” Thomas seemed to collect himself, springing up after Alexander and starting back across the grass. </p><p>Alexander followed him, muttering softly to the little fish, which had resumed its frantic squabble with the side of the bowl. </p><p>“Alex,” Thomas sighed, turning round to face him and walking backwards, the corners of his mouth working to suppress a smile with apparent difficulty. “It’s not a child you know.” </p><p>Alexander glared at him. “I hope you’re going to take this seriously. If she dies on your watch I will kill you.” </p><p>“Will you now?” He said softly, standing motionless until Alexander stopped in front of him, glaring up dispassionately into his smug expression. Alexander felt his warm breath fan across his cheek and his stomach twisted. </p><p>Honestly, screw this. </p><p>“You know,” he said casually, “how you said not to dance with any pretty boys?”</p><p>Thomas’ expression dropped a fraction before he raised an eyebrow indifferently. “Ah, off to ruin someone else’s life now I see?”</p><p>“No.” Alexander shot him a distasteful glare, starting off again in the direction of the dorms. Thomas jogged to catch up, the torchlight flickering jerkily on the grass, and was quiet for a minute before asking, as though he couldn’t help it; “So, did you?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Dance. With anyone.” </p><p>“I may have done.” </p><p>They reached the dorms and Thomas switched off the torch, pushing open the door to let Alexander through, his expression slightly cold. “Who was it?”</p><p>“His name was Jasper.” He started climbing the stairs and heard Thomas grunt behind him as he followed. </p><p>“Never heard of him.” </p><p>“Maria said he’d been staring at me all evening.” And so what if that was a slight exaggeration. He was enjoying himself far too much to care. </p><p>Thomas pushed past him into his room, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t imagine why.” </p><p>Alexander grinned, walking over to the windowsill and placing the bowl carefully on the ledge. “He gave me a few suggestions.” </p><p>“How kind of him,” Thomas bit out. </p><p>Glancing at him, Alexander took in his locked jaw and pursed lips and wondered if there was something he wasn’t letting on. Maybe he actually <i>did</i> know Jasper, and their families had clashed. Everyone with an established name seemed to have some kind of bloodied history with every other family in their social circle. </p><p>“So,” he began brightly, swiftly changing the topic in a small attempt at reconciliation, and to rein Thomas’ expression back into something more familiar. “Do you want to name her.” </p><p>Thomas took a breath, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Look at that, he knows how to be chivalrous.” </p><p>“On occasion,” Alexander grinned, “so?”</p><p>Thomas walked round the bed to stand with him by the window. “Um. What about Nina?”</p><p>“Where did that come from?” Then; “wait,” he said as Thomas opened his mouth. “Let me guess. Some composer or something?”</p><p>Thomas ducked his head in slight embarrassment. “Almost. She’s a jazz player, and a pianist. There aren’t actually many females who we study, so she’s pretty rare.” </p><p>Alexander gazed at him, hating how endearing he was. “Sure,” he shrugged in a weak attempt to squash the unpleasant feeling rising in his chest. “Nina she is.” </p><p>Thomas turned, looking at him softly. “You should get some rest.” </p><p>“Maybe,” he said reluctantly, “will she be okay?”</p><p>“Alex, I’m not going to murder her in my sleep.” Thomas rolled his eyes, giving him a gently push in the direction of the door. </p><p>“Forgive me if I don’t believe that,” he muttered, but went regardless, pausing at the door to offer a small smile. “Um, thanks. You know. For indulging me.” </p><p>Thomas shrugged a little, with a half smile that was almost wistful. “Any time, <i>chérie.</i>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde. </p><p>Comments make me as excited as getting a fish makes Alexander, so please consider leaving one if you have the time :) </p><p>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. magic to make the sanest man go mad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a snake's whisper and a series of strange disappearances</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sorry - yet again this chapter is a bit of a shitshow, also it feels like a bit of an english lesson but for the sake of plot; voila </p><p>And: if you're one of those people who skipped the prologue, may I suggest reading it as this will make a hell of a lot more sense. (I'm sort of counting on you all to pick up on my hint because we all know Alex is wayy too oblivious to figure anything out for himself)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A week or so later, Alexander was sitting at the table with Eliza amid the remains of their breakfast: forgotten crusts and cold, slightly watery coffee, and attempting with little success to console John, who had been fretting for a good twenty minutes. </p><p>Eliza leaned across the table, pushing aside their plates to reach for his hand. “Stop it, stop it,” she cooed. “You’re completely overthinking it.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander added with a half smile, “that’s my job, remember?”</p><p>John returned his smile weakly. “I just really like her. I know we’ve only just started something other than a friendship, I get that a couple of weeks is nothing, I do. So I know it’s dumb, but, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “She just fits with me, you know what I mean?”</p><p>Alexander didn’t know, never having the luxury of ever dating anyone. He nodded in sympathy anyway. </p><p>“Completely.” There was a soft wistfulness to Eliza’s tone that tickled at Alexander’s conscience, and he shot her a look of curiosity that she pointedly ignored. </p><p>“I – I just…” John looked down, his face crumpling uncertainly. “I just don’t know. I don’t know <i>anything</i> anymore and I hate it.” </p><p>And there was something Alexander <i>did</i> understand. </p><p>“It’s just that every time I feel myself getting close to her, something in me always pulls back, and all I can think is ‘she’s not your soulmate so don't get in too deep.” </p><p>Alexander watched his shoulders hunch dejectedly and felt something stab through him. John’s heart was too good for him to feel like this. </p><p>“Hey,” he said quickly, in a desperate attempt to shake John’s expression back into his usual convivial smile. “Don’t think about all that. Forget the consequences for now, yeah? Just let yourself be with her – let yourself be dragged wherever your feelings are headed, and if something happens – if one of you meets your actual soulmate or…I don’t know.” He paused, “but whatever does happen, you can deal with it then. You shouldn’t ruin something good when you have it, just because you’re worried about what <i>could</i> happen, when you never know – it might not.” </p><p>“Alex is right, love.” Eliza squeezed John’s hand as he looked back and forth between their faces as though desperate for them to offer something he could latch onto. Alexander wished he had sat on the other side of the table so he could wrap John up in his arms and squeeze the doubt right out of him. </p><p>“And also don’t forget – this is college,” Eliza soothed, “even if it doesn’t work out, you can still fall for her, even if it’s only for a while. Love doesn’t have to last forever for it to be real.” </p><p>“Well, that was poetic.” </p><p>Alexander felt something in him that had been weighing heaver and heavier the more worried John became lift slightly at the sound of that voice. He leaned imperceptibly into him as Thomas dropped into the bench to his left. Alexander felt him shift away slightly, and wondered, heart pattering restlessly, if it was because of him. </p><p>“Ah – sorry!” Thomas corrected himself correctly as he caught John’s eye. “Is everything okay? I can, uh, leave if you need.” </p><p>“No, don’t be silly.” Eliza leaned around Alexander slightly to look at Thomas. “John’s just worried that he’ll fall for Louise if he spends time with her, even though she isn’t his soulmate.” </p><p>Thomas nodded, his lips pressing together in understanding. </p><p>“And we were telling him just to go with it, and work it out later if something comes up.” </p><p>“Oh.” Alexander felt Thomas shuffle slightly beside him. “Yeah? I guess that sounds fair.” </p><p>“What?” John latched onto his words with an almost eager desperation, as though he had been waiting for an excuse to corroborate what he had been telling himself. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well – I don’t know.” Thomas said haltingly, taking in Eliza’s piercing glare. “I…I mean. It’s your decision.” He looked determinedly away from Eliza and spoke directly to John. “Because if she’s not your soulmate, then you could end up getting hurt. What if… What if you meet your soulmate, and then don’t know whether or not to leave Louise, or what if she meets hers – even if you stay friends then you’d have to watch them be together, watch someone else make her laugh, hold her, kiss her. Think of how that would break you.” </p><p>John’s expression was sinking further the more Thomas spoke and Alexander wanted to whack him. He turned to shoot Thomas a glare – couldn’t he see how John didn’t need to hear this right now? But beside him Eliza was nodding. Honestly, to him this was just another example of why people needed to get as far away as they could from the whole ‘your soulmate is the only person you should love’ idea. </p><p>“But then again,” Thomas continued quietly, looking down at the table, “if you care about her enough, then it might be worth it just to…just to be around her – be with her for as long as you can despite…despite what could happen.” </p><p>John was nodding slowly. </p><p>“You just need to decide if she’s worth the pain.”</p><p>“You don’t even need to worry about it just yet,” Eliza reassured him softly. “See how you feel in a month or two. Some feelings are brief you know, fiery in their moment but temporary all the same.” </p><p>Thomas glanced up and caught her eye, and Alexander felt something imperceptible pass between the three of them that was just beyond his grasp. Suddenly, he was a little out of his depth. He felt as though he was shrinking in on himself, leaving the other three in their mutual understanding that he didn’t seem to be included in. John was nodding slowly again as though to himself, glancing down at the table; Eliza was staring off distantly across the hall. </p><p>Alexander looked around wildly for a moment, eyes flitting undecidedly between them before following Eliza’s gaze and was momentarily startled out of his uncertainty when he locked eyes with Maria. She gave him a small smile, her cheeks tingeing slightly with a faint blush as she looked back down. </p><p>He mirrored her movements, focusing on his own twisting fingers and swallowing back the rushing feeling that was a little too close to panic which was mounting in his chest. Why was he suddenly feeling so alone? He could feel the weight of Thomas’ gaze on him as he sunk further and further. </p><p>“Hey.” His voice was a soft whisper and Alexander clung to it, Thomas’ shoulder nudging his own gently.</p><p>“Hey, where are you?”</p><p>He looked up, recognising with a slight jolt that the emotion bleeding through Thomas’ dark eyes was something close to concern. He shook his head – what could he say? <i>He</i> didn’t even know what was wrong. Suddenly he felt Thomas’ hand brush over his knotted fingers, his thumb rubbing in a soothing circle and his mind stilled. There were four of them at the table again, not three, and Eliza was still talking softly to John. </p><p> </p><p>The hall was gradually emptying around them. They had their poetry class to get to, but when Alexander glanced at John he could still see a hint of his lingering uncertainty in his expression. </p><p>Eliza squeezed his hand one last time, then stood. </p><p>Alexander hesitated. “Do you need us to stay with you?”</p><p>“You? Miss class?” John’s mouth twitched into a very small smile. “Jesus, I <i>must</i> sound pathetic.” </p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” he said easily. “Of course I can stay. These two will take notes for me.” </p><p>“Nah,” John rolled his shoulders back, seeming to pull resolution from deep inside himself. “It’s okay. You’re right – I’ll just let things go and see how it is in a month. Things can change over time anyway.” He laughed, “who knows, I may not even care at all in a week.” </p><p>Eliza frowned. “You don’t know that. Don’t just dismiss it.” </p><p>“I reckon giving it time is best.” Thomas pushed himself up after Eliza. “It might be easier for you to work things out later on anyway.” </p><p>Alexander nodded, still remaining in his seat. “You could always talk to her?”</p><p>“Maybe.” John looked doubtful. “I don’t want her to think I’m making a big deal of things, though.”</p><p>“Fair.” Eliza smiled at him. “Well, we’ll see you after class, yeah?”</p><p>John returned her smile. “Sure. Thanks. And, uh. Well sorry for being overly dramatic.” </p><p>“Don’t be,” Alexander said quickly, relieved that some of the usual warmth had crept back into his eyes. </p><p>Thomas nudged him. “You coming?”</p><p>He cast a last appraising look over John, then stood and followed the other two. </p><p> </p><p>“Poor John,” Eliza mused as they turned out of the hall. “I hope he works it out. I know the soulmate situation is kind of unavoidable, but it does make things difficult sometimes, hey?”</p><p>“Tell me about it.” </p><p>For some reason, Thomas was looking mulish. </p><p>Alexander was silent as they made their way up the stairs and into the first floor corridor when he was roused by the soft call of Thomas’ name. </p><p>His eyes followed the direction of the shout to see a girl, leaning against the locked door of a classroom amid a gaggle of students. She was slight, clutching a book tightly against her. Her cheeks were full and rounded around a smile, her light, slightly curly hair secured in a loose bun at the top of her head by a pencil. </p><p>“Oh, hey!” Thomas called, returning her smile before turning to them. “I’ll just be a minute, you go on.” </p><p>Eliza shrugged and kept walking and Alexander followed her, turning around before he could help it, only to see Thomas leaning casually against the doorframe beside the girl, his head cocked to the side as he smiled a response to her bright laugh. </p><p>He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember why she looked vaguely familiar. </p><p>As soon as they turned into their classroom he rounded on Eliza. The professor was almost finished handing out their new set of books – they were moving on from Auden today. “Who was that?”</p><p>“Who?” They took a seat and Eliza started pulling pens and paper out of her bag. </p><p>“That girl.” </p><p>“Oh.” Her brow furrowed. “Uh, that’s Abigail. She’s in my year.” </p><p>“So? Who is she?”</p><p>The professor cleared his throat and Eliza rolled her eyes, dropping her voice. “Don’t you remember her? She was in the circle for spin the bottle? She and Thomas kissed.”</p><p>Alexander grimaced. Now she mentioned it, he did have a vague memory of a slightly hysteric uproar over the fact that Thomas had unclipped a girl’s bra and received a slap for it. </p><p>“So that’s where they met?”</p><p>Thomas came in then, muttering an apology to the professor and sliding into the seat beside Alexander. </p><p>“Have I missed anything?”</p><p>Alexander ignored him, hissing in an even lower whisper to Eliza; “or did they know each other before then?”</p><p>The corners of Eliza’s mouth worked furiously as she fought to hide a smile. “I don’t know! Maybe? Why do you even care?”</p><p>“I don’t,” he whispered quickly, his heart beating rather fast. “Why would you think that?”</p><p>“Hamilton!” The professor’s voice rang out and he jumped. “Since you obviously seem to have so much to say, I’m sure you won’t mind reading out the first poem for us.” </p><p>Alexander felt a dull blush spreading across his cheeks. He hadn’t even opened the book. </p><p>“Er, which one?” He pulled it towards him, glancing quickly at the cover. T.S.Eliot. He felt something clutch at him. His mamá had loved Eliot’s poetry. </p><p>The professor glared at him cooly. “J. Alfred Prufrock. Please pay close attention in the future.” </p><p>“Sorry,” he muttered, running his finger down the index and turning to the correct page with a slight sigh. Prufruck was <i>such</i> a long poem. </p><p>“All of it?” He asked hopefully.</p><p>“Up until line 54, that’s all we’ll have time to unpack today.” </p><p>He took a breath; “Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table; -”</p><p>“Does everyone know what ‘etherized’ means?” The professor interrupted him. </p><p>There was a low murmur of assent. </p><p>“The professor raised his eyebrows. “Good. There’s usually one person. Continue, Hamilton.” </p><p> </p><p>He kept reading, realising that he barely had to look at the words – he’s read over the poem so many times. The rhythm soothed him; and he momentarily forgot about Abigail and her bright laugh, and her round cheeks and her equally rounded hips. He let the words wash those details down the drain of his mind, along with the bright sparkle in Thomas’ eyes when he had looked at her – because he didn’t care; he shouldn’t care about that at all. </p><p>“…. Let us go and make our visit. / In the room the women come and go / talking of Michelangelo -”</p><p>“Everyone, this is important.” The professor cut through him again. Alexander wondered if he would ever finish the poem at this rate. </p><p>“He we can see a complete lack of authenticity.” He turned to the black board at the front of the room, and, picking up a spare piece of chalk proceeded to draw a sun, complete with emanating rays, raised eyebrows and a bowtie. Alexander bit back a grin. Under the sun, the professor was scribbling in messy chalked capitals; ‘stuffy and affected.’</p><p>The professor turned back to them with a slight smile, brushing chalk off his hands. “This is important in underpinning a particular interpretation of the poem. Some have said this idea encompasses the suppression of one’s sexual desire through a façade of pretension.” </p><p>Alexander began to scribble furiously.</p><p>“The repetition of this rhyming couplet embodies the external pretence people assume in order to embody the pseudo gentility expected of an effete culture. The polysyllabic grandeur of the name ‘Michelangelo’, attests to the magnificence of the classical western ideals of the renaissance, however, through the juxtaposition of the trifling and the significant that you can see within the couple, Eliot dismisses a society that reduces masterpieces to polite chatter.” </p><p>He stopped talking, and Alexander was still writing. </p><p>“Hamilton?”</p><p>He started with a slight jolt, reaching for his book. </p><p>“…. There will be time / to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; / There will be time to murder and create, -”</p><p>The professor waved his book around vaguely. “Murder your identity in order to conform to the gentile standards of society.” </p><p>“…my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - / (they will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’) /  Do I dare / Disturb the universe?”</p><p>Beside him, there was a sudden sharp intake of breath. </p><p> </p><p>Alexander glanced quickly to his left and his eyes locked with Thomas’; wide and frightened. Alexander gave him a small shake of the head in a silent question before turning back to his page. </p><p>“…I know the voices dying with a dying fall / Beneath the music from a farther room. / So how should I presume?”</p><p>He stopped and looked up at the professor for clarification. </p><p>He nodded. “Thank you Hamilton. So – everyone turn back to the first page, and let’s begin with the opening. The inclusion of the reader in ‘let us go then’, is immediately juxtaposed by ‘ether[ising]’ this kindled relationship. Can anyone tell me what you think this may be reflective of?”</p><p>As someone in the row in front of them raised their hand and began to speak, Alexander turned to Thomas. He was staring blankly at his page, his pen locked rigidly between his fingers. </p><p>“What was that for?”</p><p>Thomas didn’t seem to hear him, so Alexander nudged him with his elbow until he roused himself. But when he looked up, Alexander was met with a blank stare: unfathomable and clouded with a faint tinge of panic. </p><p>“Hey!” Concern washed through him. “You all good?”</p><p>Thomas stared at him for a moment longer, than nodded slowly. </p><p>“This is Eliot,” he said, almost to himself. </p><p>“Uh, yeah?” Alexander looked at him dubiously. “Where have you been for the past twenty minutes?”</p><p>“How did I not know Eliot?”</p><p>Alexander frowned, wondering if Thomas had said something before and he just hadn’t heard him, or if Thomas’ train of thought was simply heading nowhere. </p><p>“You’ve lost me.” </p><p>“I…just don’t understand how I didn’t know it was Eliot.” </p><p>Alexander stared at him. “What?”</p><p>Thomas’ gaze seemed to disappear into himself, and Alexander tried desperately to follow it. </p><p>He shook his head, turning back to his page. “Nothing…forget it.” </p><p>Alexander shrugged, tuning back into the discussion and picking up his pen again so he could annotate. </p><p> </p><p>The professor dismissed them forty minutes later and Alexander’s head was buzzing. He had loved this poem for so long, but as it was analysed it seemed to reform itself in his mind; simultaneously torn to pieces and put back together. He had barely placed his pen down and was turning to Eliza, his eyes shining, when Thomas pushed back his chair and stood, already clutching his books. </p><p>Alexander looked up at him in surprise. </p><p>“I’ll see you later,” he said distractedly, before Alexander could even open his mouth. Thomas brushed passed them without another word and hurried from the room. Alexander stared after him. </p><p>“What’s wrong with him?”</p><p>“How should I know?” Eliza shrugged, unconcerned. “Should we go and find John?”</p><p>“Yes!” He said, remembering suddenly, momentarily forgetting about Thomas’ weird behaviour as his worry over John rushed back. </p><p> </p><p>They found him lying on his stomach on the grass by the lake with Lafayette. He looked up with a grin as they drew close. </p><p>“Hi!”</p><p>Dropping his things, Alexander reached out as he took a seat to ruffle a hand through his curls; lips curving into an instinctive smile in return. </p><p>“Hey. How are you doing?”</p><p>John shrugged bracingly, glancing down at Alexander’s books. </p><p>“Oh, are you doing Eliot?”</p><p>Alexander caught John’s look of mild concern and shook his head slightly. John took the hint and didn’t say anything more. </p><p>“Yes!” Eliza had curled up next to him. “He’s not as dreary as Auden, thank god.” </p><p>“Hey!” Alexander protested defensively. “Auden’s not <i>dreary</i>.”</p><p>“Oh, he so is!” Eliza scoffed. “I’m miserable, you’re miserable, in fact, the whole world is miserable.” </p><p>“His poems are <i>not</i> like that,” he muttered and Eliza rolled her eyes with a smile.</p><p>“Isn’t Thomas in that class with you?” Lafayette asked, cracking open an eye and swivelling his head on the grass so he could look up at them both. </p><p>“Yeah, but he dashed off to god knows where.” </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“I don’t know, he kind of bolted.” He turned to Eliza for back up. “Am I the only one who thinks that’s weird?”</p><p>Eliza shrugged and Lafayette sat up. </p><p>“Did you say you were doing Eliot?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Lafayette stared at him for a moment, his expression closed, before reaching for the book. “Can I read that?”</p><p>Alexander handed it to him, nonplussed. “Sure, but why?”</p><p>“Lafayette ignored him, flicking through the pages. “Which poem was it?”</p><p>“Prufrock,” Eliza offered before he could answer. He watched Lafayette pause at a page, his eyes skimming downwards until his gaze halted. </p><p>“Ah.” He muttered. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<i>Oh, mon Dieu.</i>”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?”</p><p>Lafayette dropped the book and scrambled up. “I have to go.” </p><p>Alexander turned quizzically to watch him hurry across the grass in the direction of the library, calling after him; “Where are you going?”</p><p>Eliza was frowning at his retreating figure as Alexander turned back to them. “What the hell is it with this poem?”</p><p>“You got me.” John shrugged. “Maybe I should get my professor to read it in our next histology practical if it has that effect on people.” </p><p>Grinning, Alexander turned to Eliza who was still staring up at the library with a frown. </p><p>“I think I might just see if they’re okay.” </p><p>“Not you as well!” </p><p>“Sorry my loves.” She pushed herself up, blowing them a kiss before heading in the direction Lafayette had disappeared in. </p><p>“Is there something I’m missing?”</p><p>“I don’t know?” John scoffed. “I don’t take the class.” </p><p>Alexander shook his head, perplexed, then, remembering again; “you sure you’re alright?”</p><p>“Yeah.” John nodded vaguely. “It’ll be fine. I was thinking about it, and I shouldn’t fuss over it yet. I mean, it’s still really early.” </p><p>“Okay.” Alexander scooted closer to him. “Well, we’ll be here with you regardless.” </p><p>John smiled, then grimaced slightly. “Eliot, huh? That must’ve been hard.” </p><p>Alexander shrugged. “No? Why?”</p><p>John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be like that. I know what those poems mean to you.” </p><p>“Oh.” He looked out across the lake and felt John move closer, resting his cheek on Alexander’s knee. “Yeah. But it was actually nice to dissect them.” </p><p>In his mind, each word in the poem attached itself to an object in his old house and floated there: a conglomeration of burnt, forgotten things he had lived with for twelve years.</p><p>He watched them disintegrate slowly into ash. John nudged him, pulling back down to the lake. </p><p>“Come on. Read it to me. Let’s see if it makes <i>us</i> want to run somewhere unknown and possibly thrilling. Maybe we’ll bump into the other three and they can tell us what the secret is.” </p><p>Alexander smiled, pulling the book towards him. </p><p>His mother, sitting on their sinking sofa; her long delicate fingers gently cradling the covers.</p><p>He turned the pages. </p><p>She took a breath. </p><p>The words held them together. Binding them through empty years that gaped and yawned. He clung to it like a lifeline.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is from Homer's Iliad. </p><p>Okay I know this was crappy but if you have a little spare time please consider leaving a comment, I so love reading them 💛</p><p>Also there is a big hole in my plot that I have no idea how to fill so watch me abandon this for a couple months while I figure out what the hell to write next</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. we have built cathedrals out of spite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>sewn lips, a bite of the apple, and wood slashed by an iceberg</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so I had absolutely no idea where to go with this, and so to procrastinate actually filling in the gaping hole in the plot I wrote last chapter again but from Thomas' perspective. I didn't appreciate how HARD it is to get into Thomas' head and so I literally rewrote this five times for christsakes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!</p><p>p.s very sorry for the google-translated french</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thomas doesn’t know for sure, but he’s almost entirely certain this was one of the worst situations he has ever gotten himself into. Usually, he considered himself quite good at steering clear of things that were likely to blow up in his face. </p><p>The damn fishbowl, cushioned amid his books on the windowsill, and christened by the early morning sun is the first thing he sees when he blinks open an eye; Nina’s squashed little face bobbing against the glass in a blunt reminder of the latest consequence of said bad situation. </p><p>He closes his eyes against it – pushing it resolutely to the back of his mind. He has been doing that a lot recently, where all things Alexander related were concerned. Why do now what you can leave until later? Something tells him the longer he ignores it, the worse it will be when it eventually becomes unavoidable. That thought too he pushes away. </p><p> </p><p>His bed is warm and comforting, and he lets the minutes trickle slowly by in a weak protest against his impending classes. But the longer he stays there, under the sun and enveloped in warmth, the more his mind strays to <i>him</i> – and the more unwilling he is to pull his thoughts away. How can he, when he is finally getting something close to what he has been wanting for over two years? When Alexander is just so <i>Alexander.</i> </p><p>He knows he’s in too far. God, he’s in way too far. He also knows that this was the opposite of his plans, and was never, <i>never</i> supposed to happen. And he had tried to stop it – he really did <i>try;</i> but being around Alexander was just so much harder than he had anticipated. </p><p>The problem – one of many – is that Alexander is so <i>open.</i> Everything he does, he focuses the entirety of his energy on. Thomas finds it intoxicating. Alexander doesn’t just casually throw an arm around his shoulders, brush his fingers over his wrist, or make some offhand comment – he’ll put <i>thought</i> into it, he’ll lean into it, he’ll watch him with his expressive eyes that make Thomas fumble for words – which Thomas hates in itself, simply because he <i>doesn’t</i> do that; he’s <i>good</i> with words, supposed to be quick witted – but Alexander will leave his brain stuttering, and he’ll be thinking about the pressure of his hand for the rest of the day when should only have been a simple touch. </p><p>And he almost hates it – it’s irritating and keeps <i>getting in the way,</i> and it’s worse because he’s worried about a lot of things; he has pressure from his family that he can barely shoulder, he’s terrified of losing Jane and at this rate it looks as though he’s heading the same way as her – but even with all that, the only time he’s ever really felt <i>weak,</i> when everything feels out of his control in a way he can’t stomach, is when he’s around Alexander – because Alexander makes him <i>careless</i> in a way that he isn’t anywhere else. </p><p>He plans everything – or he did, before Alexander, with his frenzied disorderliness that caused all his plans to fly out the window. Yes, he may be messy, but he knows where every damn thing is – and he knows it makes him contradictory, but he hates to be surrounded by <i>neatness</i> because it makes him feel <i>predictable,</i> and he doesn’t like it when people can read him. He writes his essays out three times just so he can be sure they’re right. He doesn’t like to take notes in class because he hates to look down and see his thoughts looking so <i>muddled,</i> is much more interested in watching Alexander write because his pages are a <i>minefield</i> and Thomas thinks it’s fascinating. </p><p>He’s careful, and considered, and that’s why he normally succeeds. Maybe it’s a little immodest, but it’s true nonetheless. But Alexander – far from <i>careful</i> - is one big whirlwind Thomas isn’t sure how to handle or quieten, and he doesn’t even know that he wants to. </p><p>And damn everyone who keeps telling him otherwise; he’ll ignore the situation for as long as he has to, because Alexander makes him <i>vulnerable,</i> and it terrifies him. Last week, he couldn’t even meet his <i>own</i> eyes in the bathroom mirror, because he knew what he would find there, and it was a confirmation he didn’t need. He’s never been particularly good at hiding what he feels. How Alexander hadn’t noticed was beyond him. If he wanted to, he could use it all against him. Thomas thinks he’ll probably let him. </p><p>The only logical explanation Thomas could come up with for Alexander’s distinct <i>lack</i> of noticing, was because he didn’t care. Not about this, anyway. </p><p>And so he shouldn’t, Thomas firmly repeats, again and again, and will continue to repeat for however long is necessary – he shouldn’t care, and <i>neither should you.</i> </p><p>Uncalled for, the image of him, standing so unperturbed in the doorway pushes its way, like a raised eyebrow, to the surface of Thomas’ mind. Wearing <i>his</i> shirt. That did unfair things to him. He hates it even more because it was <i>his</i> fault – he had been the one to suggest it. <i>Here, borrow my clothes. And now they smell like you.</i> He should have kept his mouth shut. </p><p> </p><p>He is halfway dressed when Lafayette pushes his way into the room like he does everything; without request or preamble. </p><p>
  <i>“Tu n'es pas encore prêt?” – You’re still not ready</i>
</p><p>Thomas scowls, rummaging through his suitcase for a shirt. Lafayette’s attitude has been a little short of late and it’s beginning to irk him. Partly because Lafayette has a perfectly good reason, and mostly because he’s right. Thomas keeps his head lowered, waiting for the inevitable rebuke. </p><p>
  <i>“Vous ne connaissez pas le sens de frapper, Minou”? – Don’t you know the meaning of knocking, Kitty</i>
</p><p>“On occasion.” Lafayette grins, leaning languidly against the doorframe. Glancing up, Thomas catches his smirk morphing into a frown. </p><p>
  <i>“Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?” – what the hell is that?</i>
</p><p>And there it is; his bad decision laid out in the open, naked and awaiting dissection. The physical proof of his monumental stupidity. He stalls, following Lafayette’s gaze and feigning surprise when he finds himself staring at the little yellow fish, currently bobbing under the vines floating on the surface of the water, oblivious to the strife it has caused. </p><p>He scoffs with as much scorn as he can muster. <i>“Une tortue. À quoi cela ressemble-t-il?” – a turtle, obviously. What does it look like?</i></p><p>Lafayette’s expression is cool. “And why, may I ask, do you have a fish?”</p><p>“Ah.” He buries his head again in the safety of his wardrobe under the pretence of a hunt for socks. It really is a shame he likes Nina. If he had any sense he would throw her out the window. “Well, he wanted one, so…” </p><p>Lafayette doesn’t need to ask who ‘he’ is. </p><p>“Ah huh. I see. So he suggested this?” His lips are pressed together with distain and Thomas is annoyed because he deserves it. </p><p>“Well, technically, technically!” He balances precariously on one foot as he pulls a sock on. “He did, yes.” </p><p>He knows that, as far as lines go, this one is dangerously thin.</p><p>“What do you mean, ‘technically’?”</p><p>“Well.” Thomas keeps his gaze lowered for as long as he can feasibly justify. “He suggested it the first time.” It comes out as a mumble. Lafayette catches it regardless. </p><p>“Ah. I see. He made some offhand comment, like he does about everything, and then you suggested it the second time.” </p><p>“If you want to put it like that, then yes.” Not that there’s really any other way to put it. Thomas pulls his shoes on, and looks around slightly helplessly for his books. What does he have this morning? </p><p>“Do we have humanities?”</p><p>
  <i>“Non.”</i>
</p><p>He stomachs the slight pang of disappointment he has no right to feel, pushing a stack of music scores off his desk onto the floor in order to unearth his timetable. Poetry. He bites back a smile. </p><p>Lafayette is watching him carefully. <i>“Tête de noed. Sais-tu ce que signifie un poisson?” – dickhead. Do you even know what a fish implies</i></p><p>He ignores Lafayette, like he’s taken to doing a lot recently. His poetry books are on the windowsill. He grabs them, chivvying Lafayette out of the room before he can say anything else to remind him of his many reasons for feeling guilty; suddenly having cause to be at breakfast for once. Eliza is in this class too, which means Alexander should be early for a change. Alexander in the morning, soft and sleepy, a little moody, and somehow quicker to smile, is one of Thomas’ favourite times to be around Alexander. It's as close as he can get to waking up next to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Well?”</p><p>Thomas sighs, leading the way through the corridor and down the stairwell. Of course he knows what it means. He’s not ignorant. How Alexander <i>didn’t</i> know was a more reasonable question. The idiot. <i>Let’s get a fish.</i> Didn’t he have any inkling as to what he was implying? In some ways, let’s get a pet together was as good a proposition as any. Thomas can’t see the stairwell around them anymore, only Alexander, lying on the grass by the lake. </p><p>
  <i>“Please, let’s get a fish.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s the fact that this was such an Alexander thing to say: completely out of context, entirely unpredictable and unexpected – something that gave an insight into how his thoughts must be; jumbled up in his mind like a maze, and it always enthrals Thomas because he’s never known anyone else who thinks like that – who can be reading a dissertation on the legitimacy of American politics and ask ‘do you think butter set in rectangular moulds tastes different to butter set in circular moulds?’ Or in class, listening to their professor explain how Second World War poetry is distinguishable because it was written by commoners not linguists and was therefore accessible not exclusive, and have Alexander lean over and whisper ‘right now is sunflower season in Spain and I want to see them. Come with me?’ Or now, lying by the lake, watching the clouds and thinking about the legislation and how to include section b without just paraphrasing, and, suddenly; ‘let’s get a fish.’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It’s the fact that, when Thomas asks ‘where?’ Alexander falters; a pet shop? The lake? Like he clearly hasn’t considered this at all – has simply blurted out the thought as soon as it crossed his mind – and Thomas has to bite back a smile. It’s the fact that Alexander acts before he thinks – that he just does everything as if there’s no point in holding back – Thomas thinks he might love that about him, and so he says yes without thinking either; because right now he wants to kiss him; has to swallow against the sudden ache in his throat, has to fight the urge to roll over on top of him and feel the vibrations in Alexander’s chest as he laughs and feel Alexander’s arms close willingly and without hesitation around him, has to push away the longing to press kisses to Alexander’s flushed, rounded cheeks and tell him that, really, he would do anything – anything; he need only ask.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>“He was worried about the Schuyler’s gala.” He mutters in a weak defence. </p><p>“So?”</p><p>Yes, exactly. <i>So?</i></p><p>He doesn’t reply, self conscious and irritable because there’s nothing he can say for himself and Lafayette knows it. </p><p>They enter the hall, and Thomas’ eyes find him quicker than he cares to admit. He turns to Lafayette – but he’s already shaking his head, a slight smirk playing against his lips and Thomas doesn’t even have the grace to feel ashamed at his own predictability, because at this point it’s a little late for that. </p><p>Thomas weaves through the people crossing between tables, heart beating a little faster – as it always does at the prospect of being around him; at the sheer risk of knowing Alexander could see right through him at any moment – and catches the last threads of Eliza’s words as he slips onto the bench; “love doesn’t have to last forever for it to be real.” </p><p>“Well, that was poetic.” He allows himself the small indulgence of pressing into Alexander’s side for a second before sliding marginally down the bench; because he can still pick the apple even if he can’t bite it – and a dance with the devil never hurt anyone, but enough is enough and he knows that. </p><p>He’s smirking because something that elegiac is <i>such</i> an Eliza thing to say, and she loves to pretend she’s wild and spontaneous even when she’s just so undeniably <i>familiar</i> that it’s almost heart wrenching – but, glancing quickly round the table, his mind strays from Alexander long enough to judge the restlessness settled between them and he’s struck with the possibility that he might have walked into a conversation he really isn’t needed in. Opposite him, John is looking more miserable than he’s ever seen him.  </p><p>“Sorry,” he hesitates, on the verge of standing back up; “is everything okay?” Unwillingly, his gaze strays to his right. “I can, uh, leave? If you need.”</p><p>“No, don’t be silly.” Eliza’s pragmatism squashes any indecision with a feminine administration she <i>owns</i> and that Thomas has always found inexplicably reassuring. Her confidence is a stark contrast to Alexander, who is radiating such tangible waves of concern that Thomas can feel his own stomach knotting despite not even knowing what the situation is about. </p><p>“John’s worried that he’ll fall for Louise if he spends time with her, even though she isn’t his soulmate.” </p><p>Thomas almost laughs, pressing his lips together with the knowledge that laughter would appear entirely unsympathetic.  He looks everywhere but at Alexander. </p><p>Eliza glances over at John. “We were telling him just to go with it, and work it out later, if it comes to that.” </p><p>He shrugs. How big of a hole do you want to dig yourself into? </p><p>“Yeah? I guess that sounds fair.” </p><p>“What do you mean?” John says quickly, turning to him with a slightly wild desperation that makes Thomas wonder he’s the only other person at the table who has any idea of what is actually going through John’s mind. </p><p>“Well, I don’t know,” he says slowly, glancing between Eliza and Alexander’s furious glares and realising they’ve been sugar coating their advise. He grits his teeth. Unfortunately, this situation can become so sour no amount of sugar will sweeten it. He, of all people, knows that well enough. </p><p>“I mean -” he does what he does best, and ignores their disapproval – “it’s your decision. Because if she’s not your soulmate, then you could end up getting hurt. What if…” he’s thinking of one person, and one person only. “What if you meet your soulmate and don’t know what to do, or if she meets hers and then just leaves you.” </p><p>He swallows. <i>This is why you don’t think about these things.</i></p><p>He continues regardless, voicing the fears he never allows himself to dwell on, simply because it’s just not worth it – forcing himself to stare at the table because otherwise his treacherous eyes would look at <i>him,</i> and tell everyone what they probably – and rightly – already suspect. </p><p>“Even if you stay friends, then you’d have to watch them be together; watch someone else make her laugh, hold her – kiss her -” something in him boils; his hands curling into the fabric of his jeans under the table, his nails pressing through the material – “think of how that would break you.” </p><p>He won’t look at him. He <i>refuses</i> to look at him. </p><p>He forces himself to unclench his hand; to take a breath that isn’t at all steadying, and, well, if he isn’t the biggest hypocrite ever. With some difficulty, he resists taking Alexander by the shoulders and giving him a shake. Can’t you see what I’m trying to say? Can’t you? <i>Why can’t you?</i> </p><p>“But then again, if you care about her enough, then it might be worth it just to -” he let’s the words sit sourly in his mouth before saying them, pressing his lips together in a façade of indifferent he can’t delude himself into believing. He hates, <i>hates</i> how painful this is – “just to be around her, be <i>with</i> her for as long as you can despite what could happen.” </p><p>He knows the truth is there, bare and exposed in his eyes but looks up at John anyway. <i>It feels like this. Do you want that?</i> Something close to understanding passes between them, and Thomas is sure John knows what he means. He says it regardless, perhaps only because he wishes certain <i>other</i> people were just as astute; “you just need to decide if she’s worth the pain.” </p><p>He doesn’t hear what Eliza says next – he’s given into the inevitable, and is looking at him; only at him. Taking in the tense hunch of his shoulders, his furrowed, pensive brows, the loose curls that Thomas doesn’t ever let his gaze linger on for long because their softness reminds him how he’d like to bury his hands in them; causes him to imagine what Alexander’s expression might be if he gave them a slight tug. </p><p>He doesn’t know when he decided that this idiot – this absolute idiot – beside him was worth it. Really, it wasn’t even a decision he had a conscious agreement in. He just was. </p><p>As he watches, Alexander is slipping away, curling into himself in a way that Thomas recognises, <i>hates</i> that he recognises; because he has seen it before. Times like this, instead of finding a soft rebuke or jest behind Alexander’s eyes when Thomas meets his gaze, Thomas is confronted with a blank emptiness that is almost impossible not to fall into. He sees it in snatches, there for a second before Alexander reins it back in and covers it, previously with an insult, and now, more recently, with nonchalance. He’s seen it by the lake before Alexander told him about his mamá, before the gala when he looked at his reflection in Thomas’ mirror; in the abandoned dorms, right after he had kissed Thomas like he was feeling everything Thomas wanted him to. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low; not to draw attention from the others but unable to stay silent; knowing only that he wants to wipe that hollowness from his expression – “hey, where are you?”</p><p>Before he can be deterred by the impossible rashness of his decision, the <i>forbidden</i> nature of taking even the smallest bite of the apple – he’s reaching out to brush slightly shaking fingers over Alexander’s palm. Thomas lets out a small breath when he feels Alexander stop his fidgeting, waiting for him to inevitably push his hand away, but he doesn’t so Thomas leaves it there. </p><p>After a moment, Alexander looks up at him, only with the barest hint of a smile, but it’s enough; his eyes are no longer blank and far from where Thomas can reach them. Thomas lets himself focus again, and, now that he’s no longer preoccupied, is suddenly blatantly aware of the drawing inevitability of class. He can’t decide if now is a good time to mention it. </p><p>Eliza seems to echo his thoughts, however, and stands, making the decision for them – but Alexander only leans back across the table towards John, asking; “do you need us to stay with you?”</p><p>John shakes his head. “You? Miss class? Jesus, I must sound pathetic.” </p><p>It must be a mark of their friendship that John doesn’t even consider pulling Alexander away from something he loves, even though Thomas presumes Alexander is probably the only person John wants to be around right now. </p><p>Alexander immediately scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I can stay.” </p><p>“Nah, it’s okay.” John sits up straighter with a slight grimace in his expression that’s the physical embodiment of what Thomas has been mentally doing for the past month or two. Push everything away and tell yourself you can deal with it later. Only later never comes. </p><p>“You’re right, I’ll let things go and see how it is in a month. Things can change over time, anyway.” John huffs out a laugh that Thomas doesn’t, not for a second, believe. “I may not even care at all in a week.” </p><p>“You don’t know that,” Eliza says quickly, “don’t just dismiss it.” </p><p>Thomas resists rolling his eyes. John’s not dismissing it, he wants to tell her. He’s just desperately hoping for some kind or miracle that everything will turn out fine, even with the simultaneous knowledge of the impossibility of that ever happening. </p><p>He doesn’t argue with Eliza, however, just pushes himself up. “I reckon giving it time is best. It might be easier for you to work things out later on anyway.” </p><p>Or you can just keep going until she pushes you away. </p><p>He doesn’t say this, either, thinking John’s situation probably isn’t as pathetic as his own is.</p><p>Alexander still hasn’t moved. “You could always talk to her?”</p><p>And, well, wouldn’t that stir the pits of hell. Thomas tries to think of just one situation where he tells Alexander the truth that doesn’t end in disaster, and can’t. There is a nasty bitterness in his mouth he resolutely swallows. John seems to echo his unacknowledged sentiments. </p><p>“Yeah? I don’t want her to think I’m making a big deal of things though.” </p><p>Eliza nods sympathetically. “Fair. Well, we’ll see you after class, yeah?” </p><p>“Sure.” John nods, then smiles a little awkwardly. “Thanks. And uh, well. Sorry for being overly dramatic.” </p><p>“Don’t be!” Alexander interjects him immediately and Thomas’ heart gives a small twist at the fact that Alexander willingly and unblinkingly accepts hesitation and uncertainty in anyone but himself. </p><p>Eliza has already started walking slowly through the tables, waiting for them to catch up, and Thomas curses his own reluctance to leave Alexander’s side for a second even as he taps him lightly on the shoulder. </p><p>“You coming?”</p><p>Alexander hesitates for a moment longer before standing somewhat reluctantly, and Thomas turns to leave the hall, batting away the urge to reach back and lead him by the hand. </p><p> </p><p>They step into the corridor and Eliza turns to them voicing the tail end of her train of thought. “Poor John – I hope he works it out.” She frowns. “I know the soulmate situation is kind of unavoidable, but it does make things difficult sometimes, hey?” </p><p>And sue him if that isn’t the understatement of the century. For a second – only a second – he allows himself to entertain the idea of what things might be like if soulmates <i>weren’t</i> a reality they were all unequivocally bound by. He wouldn’t be living with the constant dread of his sister’s fate. He would've gone to Alexander the moment their relationship had shifted imperceptibly to tentative friends. Would’ve said, blasé and casual, like he was asking for sake of it, like he didn’t really care either way; hey, want to go out? Alexander would’ve shot him down, nice and quick; he would’ve stomached the disappointment, probably continued to pine after him, possibly attempted to change his mind, definitely gone out with someone else out of pure spite because his pride was easily wounded, would’ve felt his heart break a little every time he saw him - and stewed with the fact that sometimes life doesn’t let you be with the one person you really want to. </p><p>The second is over. </p><p>So, all in all, it's not actually that different from his reality. The difference is that ideal doesn’t make him weak. The difference is that, here, Thomas can’t even open his mouth. He glares at nothing in particular. “Tell me about it.” </p><p>It’s the principal of the thing. Again; that simple fact he can’t seem to avoid coming back to haunt him. <i>He can’t get the words out.</i> </p><p> </p><p>Dimly, he hears the shout of his name filter through the layers of voices echoing around the corridor. “Thomas!”</p><p>Looking up, he clears his expression quickly as he spots Abigail; the faint twinge of embarrassment that come hand in hand with running into her settling in his stomach. Luckily for him, she isn’t a bitch. </p><p>“Oh, hey!” He gives her a small wave; constantly compensating for his own stupidity, before turning towards the other two. Alexander has his eyes slightly narrowed, and Thomas refuses to acknowledge that it reminds him of their previous animosity. </p><p>“I’ll just be a minute,” he tells them, because being around Alexander is a little too much at the moment; “you go on.” </p><p>He changes the direction of his steps towards Abigail, ducking his head slightly as he nears her; her lips are already quirked in a smile and he leans against the doorframe for some kind of moral support. </p><p>He likes Abigail. She has an intelligent tilt in her eyes that Thomas can’t help but be drawn to, and that, in a world where Alexander didn’t exist, he would have claimed. He had kissed her during spin the bottle, and he would have said she was a good kisser – except that Alexander had kissed him right after and made every other kiss he had ever experienced turn to dust, and so he couldn’t remember the taste of her lips even if he wanted to. </p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not wearing a bra today, so you won’t have your work cut out for you.” </p><p>Thomas laughs; it’s not often someone uses his own embarrassment against him and it’s surprisingly refreshing. The only other person who has the courage to do that is now almost out of sight down the hall, and Thomas has to physically pull his eyes away from his retreating figure, and back onto the girl in front of him. </p><p>He winks; the slightly cocky confidence he can seem to own everywhere but the one situation he could actually use it reasserting itself effortlessly as his embarrassment quells, and he lets his eyes drift, carefully, over her; rounded hips, slim fingers, a faint blush in her cheeks that tells him she isn’t as calm as she makes out to be. He looks slowly back up and holds her gaze with the barest hint of a smile. </p><p>“Pity. I always like a bit of a challenge.” Unfortunately, the only particular challenge he’s remotely interested in doesn’t want to do any sort of ‘challenging’ with him. </p><p>The colour on Abigail’s cheeks deepens and Thomas grins, pushing himself off the wall as her classroom door opens from the inside and students start filing through. </p><p>“I’ll see you later?” </p><p>“Yeah.” She gives him a smile before he turns, walking quickly down the nearly empty hall and pushing open the door of his own classroom. </p><p>The professor has already started, so he mumbles an apology; his eyes already on Alexander, who is whispering urgently to Eliza. Thomas suppresses a smirk; this is the first time he’s seen Alexander blatantly ignoring a teacher. </p><p> </p><p>“Have I missed anything?” He asks as he slips into the seat beside him, even though he knows he hasn’t because he’s only a couple of minutes late and Eliza hasn’t even opened her books yet, but he still wants Alexander to roll his eyes with the struggled suppression of a smile, and give him some quip along the lines of <i>it’s your own fucking fault you can’t keep track of the fucking time and why should I help someone so fucking incompetent.</i> </p><p>Alexander says nothing, however, ignoring Thomas as thoroughly as he’s ignoring their professor, until his name is called and Thomas feels him flinch. He bites his lip to stop himself teasing him about it. </p><p>“Since you obviously seem to have so much to say, I’m sure you won’t mind reading out the first poem for us.” </p><p>“Er, which one?” </p><p>Thomas’ eyes follow Alexander’s movements as his hand darts out to snag the book from the top of the desk, thinking for the hundredth time how impossibly <i>small</i> Alexander’s hands are – thinking how he is used to being touched; is used to having arms thrown around his shoulders, having people tug playfully on his curls, fingers grip his hips or nails dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders; but that he will never be able to get used to how Alexander will so carelessly nudge him to get his attention, or thoughtlessly brush those hands over his arm and leave his insides swooping and his mind blank. He thinks just how easy it would be to reach out and cover that small hand with his own. </p><p>He forces his gaze back down to the page instead, flicking through the book until he finds the correct poem. He’s never studied T.S. Eliot before; his professors back in France had preferred French works over those written by American or European authors. </p><p> </p><p>Alexander starts to read, and Thomas listens to his clear assonance wrap around each syllable and wonders if he’ll ever be able to read it with any other voice in his head. The professor interrupts Alexander with an explanation, and Thomas feels a pang of annoyance, because he <i>likes</i> listening to Alexander talk; could listen to him for hours – and he’s annoyed because someone is always interrupting, because Alexander always shuts himself up like he feels as though he’s annoying people, and Thomas can’t help but wonder if he’s just as mindful when he’s <i>under</i> someone, if he would bite his lip to keep himself quiet or if Thomas would have to do it for him. </p><p> </p><p>The professor is describing the devaluation and reduction of the renaissance and Thomas lets his mind drift to his most recent music tutorial where something similar had been discussed, and thinks that art, in all its forms, became increasingly disregarded over time as people turned their interest away from the world and onto themselves. He’s too busy drawing the sun the professor has scribbled on the blackboard to bother writing down the explanation; noticing that although Alexander’s page was already covered in annotations, he still thought the drawing was important enough to copy as well; and Thomas tries to ignore how undeniably endearing that is; wondering why his mind is more focused on the boy next to him than on the couplet they are supposed to be dissecting. </p><p>“…there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; there will be time to murder and create…”</p><p>Thomas, his forehead pressed into his palm as he stares down at the page, sneaks a glance to his right. He wonders how easy it would be to distract Alexander – he could, so easily; could reach out and brush the stray waves of hair out of his face, could let his fingers linger over the sensitive skin of his neck – and he almost does it; thinking how it might be worth exposing himself just to hear if Alexander’s voice would hitch; if he would look over with wide, startled eyes. Thomas wonders if Alexander would falter if he placed his hand over his thigh, and before he can help it Thomas is thinking of squeezing his fingers into the soft flesh and suddenly his <i>own</i> breath is catching and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. </p><p>“…my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - they will say: ‘but how his arms and legs are thin!’ Do I dare disturb the universe?”</p><p>The words slap across his face in a sharp reprimand for letting his mind wander, jolting him sharply back to reality. His eyes snap open; his elbows jerking off the desk and his lungs constricting in his chest for an entirely different reason. </p><p>Something in him is falling; his heart is beating loud, too loud, in his ears, and Alexander turns, shaking his head in confusion before continuing to read but Thomas can barely hear him because in his mind he is in France and he is fourteen years old and he is seeing those words on his arm for the first time. </p><p> </p><p>He knows then. </p><p>Not explicitly. Not absolutely, completely certain. But almost. And that is enough. </p><p>He knows he has a tattoo of a jasmine bush over his left hip, and he knows that sometimes, if he’s lucky, he’ll lean across Alexander to talk to whoever is on his other side, or he’ll indulge himself to lean in just a <i>little</i> too close and he’ll catch the barest hint of jasmine. He knows that he lost the hair tie – <i>Alexander’s</i> tie that he used in the library all those weeks ago, the one that Thomas <i>refused</i> to take of his wrist even though he knew he was being stupid, the one that, when he had looked down and noticed it was missing had panicked, because to him it felt like he was losing a little of Alexander, not just a tie; and he knows that, a day later, Alexander had sat on the edge of his bed and told him that he had a new, circular tattoo on his shoulder. He knows that Alexander likes his toast a little burnt, will sift through the rack until he finds a piece that’s a little blackened around the corners, and he knows that he has a tiny toaster on the inside of his ankle with smoke wafting out the top. He knows that Alexander’s mamá would dance around the kitchen when she came home from work, and he knows that on his left arm there is a small grated knife sitting atop a stereo. He knows that Alexander skips breakfast most days but will <i>always</i> be there on Sunday, because of those damn hash browns, and he knows that he has a potato plant on the back of his calf, and he knows it’s definitely a potato plant because he had gone to the library to <i>check</i> what they looked like – had persuaded Martha to grow them as part of some agriculture project in her class for botanical studies, had dragged her to the greenhouse so he could see them for himself. He knows that there is a raspberry bush growing at the back of his family's garden in Virginia, and that Jane used to make jam from them every summer, but the last July she was too weak to walk down the lane to collect them, and he knows that Alexander has a jam jar on the inside of his wrist. </p><p>And he knows that Alexander loves poetry. </p><p>He knows that he cares about Alexander in a way that he’s cared for no one else. And he isn’t completely sure, but he thinks that Alexander’s life it etched all over him, and he knows that, god, he’s so screwed. </p><p> </p><p>His ears are buzzing, and the spot on his desk that his eyes have fixed on swells and undulates; the words seeming to repeat themselves over and over in his brain like a mantra. He can’t understand it. Eliot. How couldn’t he have known it was Eliot. In France, he had read all the books in the school’s small library, and then read them all again. Perhaps there wasn’t a translated version of the text at the time. Perhaps the school’s bias, their snobbery, had prevented the purchase of any books that weren’t penned in France. Perhaps…</p><p>“What was that for?”</p><p>Alexander’s voice reaches through the stuttering panic he can’t even begin to unravel or attempt to rationalise, and he tries to pull himself out of it because nothing is certain yet; and he can keep pretending it’s not for as long as he likes – except at the back of his mind he knows that it <i>is</i> certain, as surely as he knows his own name, that Jane is dying, and that he fell for the wrong person. </p><p>“Hey, you all good?” Alexander has placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and in normal circumstances this fact would fill his mind and leave room for little else, but now he can barely feel it. </p><p>“This is Eliot.” He can’t understand how he <i>didn’t realise.</i> Prided on his intellect and he can’t even recognise a line from one of the most well known poems of the twentieth century. </p><p>“Uh, yeah? Where have you been for the past twenty minutes?” Alexander looks as though he’s biting back a smile. </p><p>“How did I not <i>know</i> it was Eliot?” He can’t even wrap his mind around his own stupidity. </p><p>He could ask him. Right now. To confirm what he already knows. ‘Did you lose a book of Eliot’s poems when you were fourteen years old?’ </p><p>“You’ve lost me.” </p><p>His chest is tightening around his lungs; he wants to scream; he wants to gasp for breath. Instead, he repeats, again – because he <i>still doesn’t get it;</i> “I just don’t understand how I didn’t know it was Eliot.” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>To his complete dismay, he can feel tears; hot and intrusive and <i>weak,</i> prickling the corners of his eyes. <i>You idiot.</i> He wants to slap him. In that moment, he loves Alexander so strongly he almost hates him. Why? <i>Why did you have to make me fall for you?</i></p><p>Alexander is staring at him; innocently open and confused. </p><p>It’s your own fault, Thomas tells himself. <i>You fool.</i> He didn’t make you do anything. </p><p>He shakes his head. “Nothing.” It isn’t. </p><p>“Forget it.” Please don’t. </p><p>He can’t take notes. He can’t even <i>hear</i> the discussion around him, and definitely can’t <i>focus</i> on it. </p><p>His one fear; the <i>one</i> thing he had hoped beyond hope would never happen to him is suddenly very and brutally real. </p><p>He’s not a difficult person, really. He has one thing he needs to do with his life; he has to carry his father’s legacy. His father, who, for some reason, believed in Thomas enough to place all his hope and trust around his shoulders. And to hell with that if Thomas wasn’t going to live up to his expectations. </p><p>Problems, in the shape of a small unruly boy, with an untamed intellect, a never-ending avalanche of words that Thomas drowned in, impossibly soft eyes and an ability to strip him bare with a simple glance – problems like that hadn’t meant to get in the way. </p><p>Problems like that could kill him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from a piece by Brenna Twohy. </p><p>also - yes, I am aware that this is a different tense to Alex's pov: Alex is written in past tense because he's a little stuck on all the things that have been and gone; while Thomas is struggling with the present. </p><p>Anyway I hope this was okay, and if you have time and feel like leaving a comment I would so appreciate it :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. every saint has a past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>an irritable witness, and a dive into the deep end</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi - so I'm running out of excuses, but I'm still a little lost with this. I know where I want it to go, but I'm not sure how to get it there, you know? Anyway; to procrastinate even further here's a chapter from Laf's perspective. I know, I know. Don't even ask. </p><p>So anyway, here's a bit of a crappy forage into Laf's brain. It's a little chaotic, but I'm going to use the excuse that Laf's pretty chaotic himself to pardon that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gilbert was, really, a very simple man. Not too hard to please. Not too complicated or obtuse. There were marginally few things that pissed him off. </p><p>Being called by his first name. Gilbert. For christsakes. He wasn’t some asswipe of Napoleon’s. His bitter quip of an introduction was always; if you’re going to call me Gilbert, don’t call me anything at all. </p><p>The absolute bullshit that was considered breakfast in this godforsaken country. Where was the good fucking bread. And there was never a creamy, salted stick of butter in sight. Even just a pastry; a nice simple <i>palmier.</i> Not too much to ask for, really. </p><p>And his best friend was being a stubborn, self-denying wet sock and it was really thinning his patience. </p><p> </p><p>It was alright before. He had rather enjoyed bearing witness to Thomas and Alexanders' animosity; the ridiculousness of their arguments. The childishness of their downright refusal to acknowledge <i>anything</i> was quite comical. Not bad entertainment, he would go so far as to say. But now Thomas was getting decidedly <i>sappy</i> and that was just irritating.  </p><p>Mostly, Thomas kept everything hidden. He had always been good at that. It was one of the things Gilbert liked most about him; his ability – one that so many of these <i>Americans</i> lacked – to hide how he felt. Ironically, Alexander’s habit of wearing every emotion that passed through him like a badge of honour was something Gilbert found oddly endearing. </p><p>But there were a few occasions, becoming increasingly regular of late, when Thomas’ resolve would seem to slip – when whatever the reason was for <i>hiding</i> how he felt seemed to fall short. </p><p>Like now; at the table one morning for breakfast; placidly trying to ignore whatever the hell was unfolding in front of him. Gilbert’s coffee was watery and slightly burnt; it had not been a promising start to the day. His toast, left untouched, was pushed away from him down the table. He’d had to sit through a very physical parting from John and Louise; something sure to put a sour taste in his mouth for the rest of the day, and however much he tried to quell his bitterness even he had his limits. </p><p>Across from him, Alexander stood. Gilbert sighed, his hands clenched around the coffee cup. They had been arguing. Again. He didn’t even have to be listening to know. They did it so fucking often he could tell from the feeling of the air hanging between them. </p><p>“Dickwad,” Thomas spat, glaring up at Alexander. </p><p>“Swine.” </p><p>“Imbecil.” </p><p>There was a small pause. Gilbert watched silently as Thomas waited while Alexander gathered his books together before asking; “so are we still on for later?”</p><p>“Of course.” Alexander bent to press a chaste kiss to Thomas’ forehead. <i>“Adiós hermoso.”</i>  </p><p>Thomas’ eyes followed Alexander as he disappeared off down the hall, and Gilbert lost the last of his patience. It was too early in the morning for him to deal with this in silence. </p><p>“You are,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “like a married fucking couple.” </p><p>“Your point?” Thomas shrugged, reaching for his toast. </p><p>
  <i>“Mon point, idiot, c’est que tu dois arrêter de prétender que tu t’en fous quand tu les fais de toute évidence.” – my point, idiot, is that you need to stop pretending you don’t care when you so obviously do.</i>
</p><p>“Enough.” Thomas stood abruptly, dropping the toast with a sour look on his face that was the essence of what Gilbert had been feeling all morning. “I have class.” </p><p>And there it was again, Thomas’ refusal to open his goddamn mouth. </p><p> </p><p>That wasn’t really the problem, however. Thomas could do whatever the fuck he liked. But Gilbert had always harboured a niggling suspicion that Thomas, for some irrational reason, blamed <i>him</i>; like it was all somehow <i>his</i> fault – and although Eliza insisted that was out of the question, Gilbert knew Thomas too well to ignore his doubts. </p><p>So when Thomas told him; practically threw it in his face - <i>your fault, all this, you know that</i>; Gilbert wasn’t at all surprised. He knew there wasn’t really much point in trying to convince Thomas otherwise, because he also knew that Thomas didn’t believe the accusation anymore than he did, but that Thomas just needed <i>something</i> to make himself feel marginally better. </p><p> </p><p>They were sitting at the back of the class during a small lecture they all shared on Legislative Progress – tedious and an <i>utter</i> waste of his time. Alexander was up the front and halfway through a presentation Gilbert had the distinct impression he hadn’t researched and was simply pulling facts out of thin air. Thomas had been scratchy and glum all day, which had been fine – except now Gilbert was bored and in the mood for a gossip and Thomas was ignoring him, which was frankly just <i>annoying</i>; so Gilbert turned to him when his boredom had reached his limit of tolerance and said; “for god’s sake spit it out.”</p><p>Thomas clenched his jaw and was silent for a moment before turning to glare at him. “He <i>danced</i> with some fucker.” </p><p>Gilbert was used to things like this. Thomas always seemed to have <i>something</i> going on with Alexander; but it took him a second because when the fuck would Alexander have time for dancing, but then he remembered the gala and, well, that made sense, so; “what else did you expect him to do at a function, eh?”</p><p>“That’s not the <i>point,</i>” Thomas shook his head. </p><p>Gilbert glanced at him with a sigh of exasperation because it clearly <i>was</i> the point; and Thomas’ stubbornness - always on the side of humorous, and right now just a little ridiculous - seemed to be getting in the way of that fact, and Gilbert was waiting for Thomas to work that out for himself, but: “you don’t understand. It’s <i>how</i> he dances.” </p><p>He would have laughed, except that he sort of knew what Thomas meant; because Alexander did have a chaotic kind of energy that could almost be called frantic, and he had a way of channelling the entire force of it into anything he did. Gilbert knew how intoxicating it could be if you were the focus of that energy – knew how it could <i>captivate</i> you, knew exactly what it was that Thomas was jealous of. Gilbert had never figured out what it was exactly – had thought that maybe Alexander was so used to having things taken away from him, so accustomed to <i>losing,</i> that he did everything like it was the last time he would ever have the chance to, because that’s what he had come to expect. </p><p>So Gilbert nodded instead, because he couldn’t exactly contradict him when Thomas was probably correct, but what else was he supposed to say, and it was then when Thomas bit out, grudgingly, and with the smallest hint of resentment; “it’s your fault, you know that? All this.” </p><p>Gilbert nodded again, not because he agreed, but because he had <i>known</i> this was coming, and asked instead of rolling his eyes; “how so, exactly?”</p><p>“Because,” Thomas said, not looking at him but at the floor, “you made me talk to him in the first place. I was fine, everything was fine, and then you made me fucking talk to him.” </p><p>It was true, but Gilbert doesn’t regret it, and he certainly won’t apologise; because it had been necessary; because Thomas was usually good at keeping behind a line where Alexander was concerned, but he had crossed it – and Gilbert loves Thomas but Alexander was hurt and that was just <i>unacceptable.</i> Alexander; who never complained or mentioned things like that, ever, but Gilbert had <i>seen</i> the hurt in his eyes - and that was enough to make him take Alexander’s side. They had been drunk, sitting on the floor of Alexander’s room - Gilbert had one eye on John and was only half paying attention but Alexander had muttered, almost against his will, <i>he said at least he has a family,</i> and Gilbert had frowned – partly because that was so uncharacteristic of Thomas, who was known to argue about <i>anything</i> with Alexander, but would never actually insult him, and partly because how <i>dare</i> he say that. </p><p> </p><p>Gilbert had yelled exactly that in Thomas’ face an hour or two later; that and <i>what the fuck were you thinking,</i> and Thomas, angrier than Gilbert had seen him in a while, which, looking back, was probably only covering up the fact that he was equally hurt had spat out; <i>he insulted my family, said some crap about no sacrifice</i> and <i>my sister is dying, Minou, dying</i> and Gilbert had shaken his head because, yes, that was true, but it also didn’t even come into the matter and Thomas knew it; <i>that’s completely different – Alex knows nothing of your situation</i> – Thomas was glaring at him and Gilbert didn’t care; <i>you know he has nothing.</i></p><p>It infuriated him because Thomas was a hypocrite, and he hated that; because Alexander was only doing what he always did: saying the first thing that came to mind, and Gilbert knew that Alexander didn’t know a single thing about the Jeffersons, except that Thomas was rich, and had grown up in a life that was privileged beyond anything Alexander could ever imagine, and Gilbert knew that he resented Thomas for it, and even though that resent was ill placed, it wasn’t his fault – but Thomas <i>did</i> know about the Hamiltons, knew that Alexander had no family to speak of, knew that Alexander tried to ensure that fact didn’t encroach on everything he did, and Gilbert thought it was downright cruel of Thomas to even <i>consider</i> using that against Alexander, when Alexander didn’t have anything he could fight back with. </p><p> </p><p>Usually, Gilbert tried to stay the fuck out of whatever was going on between them; kept his mouth shut that Thomas’s refusal to confess that, god forbid, he feels something for the idiot boy and then go and continue to fucking <i>argue</i> with him which was just pure hypocrisy – because it really wasn’t anything to do with him; but he had been feeling angry and rebellious and so: <i>you have to apologise to him.</i></p><p>Thomas had sneered; <i>like hell I will,</i> although his lips were pursed and he hadn’t quite met Gilbert’s eye; and Gilbert had known he should lay off because Thomas was already feeling guilty and so he had said nothing for a moment, and Thomas, like Gilbert had known he would, finally muttered; <i>he would never accept it.</i> </p><p>Gilbert had almost smiled, because he always thought it was ironic, Thomas’ blatant refusal to have a civil conversation with him - because Gilbert <i>also</i> knew Alexander; and Alexander was too forgiving for his own damn good, and so, with a shrug; <i>you might be surprised.</i></p><p> </p><p>He <i>wasn’t</i> surprised when Thomas was sitting with them at breakfast a few days later, his arm a little too close to Alexander’s, and his gaze lingering a little too long. Gilbert had been sick of it all; being in the middle of them both, and finally they could just <i>get on with it,</i> but no – they were both stubborn, and Alexander was obviously clueless as well. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t surprised now, either, although he had to admit he didn’t think it would take Thomas <i>this long</i> to confront him; and he was annoyed at how long this was dragging on for so he bit out with just as much resentment because Thomas’ pride was <i>impossible</i>; “it was <i>not</i> fine, you were in love with him and didn’t even <i>talk to him</i> and I wasn’t going to let you stand there and insult him.” </p><p>Thomas glared. “I <i>wasn’t</i> in love with him – that’s my fucking <i>point.</i> I <i>wasn’t,</i> it was <i>fine</i> and then you made me <i>talk</i> to him and now <i>nothing</i> is fine.”</p><p>“So tell him.” Gilbert said it through gritted teeth, because he has said it countless times before and it’s getting tiring, but he’ll continue to say it even though he knows what Thomas’ answer will be.</p><p>“No.” </p><p>And what else could he do. There was a perfectly simple way around all this, and if it was his choice he would have told Alexander himself what Thomas was refusing to. But Eliza had said enough was enough, and Eliza was usually on his side so he had listened to her. </p><p>He was worried about Thomas though, because, however unfortunate, soulmates were a very real thing. But it’s Thomas’ life, and if he’s happy to ruin it then there wasn’t a whole lot Gilbert could do to stop him, but it wasn’t easy – watching Thomas slowly dig himself into his own little hell. Why, for instance, would he agree to get a fish. A fish! For the love of god.   </p><p> </p><p>And now this. Gilbert had never called himself a worrier, had never really been the type to fret over things; but now even he had to admit he was falling dangerously close to feeling frankly terrified. </p><p>It was the mention of poetry that rang the faint, slightly uncertain bell in his mind and had him reaching out a hand for the book. Before he took to covering them, Gilbert had known Thomas’ tattoos almost as well as his own; the sheer quantity of them had fascinated and enthralled them both to the point of distraction. </p><p>If he had his doubts, he had said nothing of them. Soulmates were a sticky topic for most, and it wasn’t his business to pry. He had his own heart to deal with, and even though he could chastise Thomas for refusing to open his mouth, he would never be so tactless as to drag Thomas’ tattoos into the matter. </p><p>But he knew that Thomas would never pass up the chance to be around Alexander unless he had an actual reason, and he remembered the brief but fervent obsession Thomas had fallen into for the better part of a month when those words had appeared on his arm. </p><p>So, he reached for the book, flicked through the pages, his eyes skimming through the lines until he found the verse. And well, that explained it all really. </p><p> </p><p>Gilbert’s first thought was how Thomas hadn’t known it was Eliot – <i>he</i> knew who Eliot was even though he hadn’t touched a European book in years. The second is that, just because Thomas figured it out in a class that happened to include Alexander, that didn’t necessarily mean the poem or the tattoo was tied to Alexander in any way. </p><p>Regardless, he had to find him. </p><p> </p><p>Predictably, Thomas was tucked into the corner of the window seat at the edge of the library’s music section. Gilbert approached slowly, saying nothing as he sat down opposite him. </p><p>“So,” he began after waiting a beat. “You think it is Alexander, <i>non</i>?” It wasn’t his forte to be anything other than blunt. </p><p>He watched Thomas nod mutely, and felt his irritation spark just the slightest bit. “Well, what a tragedy this is. Heaven forbid your soulmate is actually someone you like.” </p><p>Thomas looked at him, finally, his expression unchanging. “Don’t start that again.” </p><p>“Well, what would you like me to say?”</p><p>Thomas’ expression fell a little and Gilbert had the grace to feel slightly ashamed. It was hard though, it really was. Both of them were far too stubborn. No wonder they were meant for each other. </p><p>Thomas’ gaze drifted out the window again, and Gilbert knew that it was directed on the figure of a certain someone who was presumably still sitting with John by the lake. </p><p>“I don’t even know for sure.” He said it mostly to himself.</p><p>“So ask.” </p><p>Thomas immediately opened his mouth and Gilbert cut him off before he could get any words out. He was sick of going over this conversation day in day out. He was also sick of Thomas calling him a hypocrite; mostly because he wasn’t, and his situation was entirely different. Thomas thought this argument fell short. The difference is that Thomas still has a chance, while <i>his</i> chance was blown a few months ago. </p><p>“Kiss one of his tattoos if you can’t talk to him. He has one on his wrist – I’ve seen it.” </p><p>“I know he does.” </p><p>Gilbert pressed his lips together. “So do it.” </p><p>“No. And I’m not talking to him either.” </p><p>“Why?” And now he was properly annoyed. Not so thoughtless as to bring Jane up yet, however. Not explicitly, anyway. “Need I remind you the consequences of ignoring this?”</p><p>Thomas looked at him, cold gaze meeting his own stubborn one. “Drop it.” </p><p>Behind them, there was the soft click of heels on the wooden floor ad Eliza appeared, taking in the scene quickly before turning to him. “What’s going on?”</p><p>And finally he had an ally. </p><p>Thomas stayed resolutely silent, and Gilbert took that, maybe incorrectly, as an offering. “Thomas might have found his soulmate.” </p><p>“Oh!” Eliza gasped, turning to Thomas, who glared at them both dispassionately, so Eliza faced Gilbert instead, her eyes wide in an open stare and he knew what she was asking; <i>were we right?</i></p><p>He nodded. </p><p>“That’s…” she trailed off uncertainly, “good?”</p><p>“It would seem,” he fixed Thomas with a glower. “But he’s refusing to talk to Alex about it.” </p><p>Eliza kneeled down next to Thomas, placing a tentative hand on his knee and offering softly; “you really should, you know. It’s a conversation you can’t exactly avoid.” </p><p>Gilbert saw something in Thomas’ eyes flash, and wondered if they had pressed too far. Why should it be his problem what Thomas does or doesn’t do. It’s not, except there is no damn way Gilbert will watch Thomas end up in the same situation as Jane. </p><p>Thomas sat up. “Actually, I can avoid it.” He was being snappy and irritable, and it broke Gilbert’s heart a little because he knew Thomas only got like that when he really cared. </p><p>“Why?” Eliza pressed gently. </p><p>“Because I’ve already asked him.” </p><p>Gilbert felt himself echoing Eliza’s frown. “Asked him what?”</p><p>“I asked him,” Thomas had gone back to glaring out the window. “I asked him if he would ever date me, and he said no.” </p><p>“Oh.” Eliza said, because there was nothing much else they could say, and Gilbert felt her shift slightly beside him, watching Thomas’ carefully cooled expression and feeling like an idiot. All this time he had been nagging Thomas to talk to Alexander when he had already done so. No wonder Thomas has been short with him. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eliza continued after a beat, “but I just find it hard to believe Alex would say that.” </p><p>She looked up at him and Gilbert shook his head slightly; how could they have read into this so wrongly?</p><p>“Really?” Thomas raised a cool eyebrow, and Gilbert knew instinctively that they both needed to shut up. “Trust me, I was there. Both times. He made it perfectly clear what he thought of the idea that anything could happen between us.” </p><p>Gilbert was halfway into blaming Alexander for leading Thomas on, when he acknowledged in the logical part of his mind that Alexander’s complicit obliviousness probably meant that he didn’t even realise. Or maybe he and Eliza had just been too busy hoping there might be something to read into that they saw what was never there in the first place. </p><p>“I still…” Eliza hadn’t caught onto the fact that Thomas was absolutely done with the both of them. “I still think you need to talk to him. At least tell him you think you’re soulmates. He might change his mind.” </p><p>“He won’t.” </p><p>“But -”</p><p>“I said no.” Thomas cut through her sharply, his eyes hardened and Gilbert stood, dragging Eliza up by the arm. Better to leave before Thomas forced them too. </p><p> </p><p>They were silent as they walk back out the library, but just before they got back to the lake Eliza turned to him. “We can’t do anything.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“It would be wrong.” </p><p>“It would.” </p><p>She was right. It would be. It wasn’t their business to meddle with fate. </p><p>“Unless…unless we should?” </p><p>He was tempted. Sorely. But he could respect Thomas’ request if he could do nothing else. “No.” </p><p>Eliza had her face turned up to his, and he swallowed against the desperation he found in her eyes. </p><p>“We can’t let them both die,” Eliza whispered, and Gilbert suddenly couldn’t look at her anymore. </p><p>“They won’t.” And lying was one of his pet hates, something he will always avoid; he’s blunt and often brutal but at least he always tells people the truth. Except for now, because they both knew what would happen. Soulmates who reject each other don’t survive. That was a simple fact. </p><p>It was Eliza’s turn to glare at him, and he quailed under the force of it. “Angelica would do something.” She threw it at him like an insult. </p><p>“Fine.” Gilbert gritted his teeth. “But only…” he hesitated, wondering if it was worth losing Thomas over this – his closest and dearest friend. His brother, really. But then, he would lose him either way. “Only as a last resort.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s later, weeks later; after the funeral, after the December ball, after Thomas had spent a week in a jealous rage over the very probable rumour that Alexander and Maria were sleeping together, after the fight that shook through the halls and left everyone wondering how hell hadn’t opened up and swallowed them all whole, after weeks of silence that was somehow worse them the years they had spent fighting, after not only Eliza, but also Angelica, who never so much as bruised, and would never, never brake, had come to him tear stained and shaking; that Gilbert decided he had no choice. He refused - regardless of the consequence - to stand at two more funerals when he might have the power to stop it. </p><p>So - sitting across from Thomas in the circle; their faces lit by the soft orange glow of the old lamps, his veins sluggish by the drip of gin and feeling a little reckless, angry and decidedly impatient - when the bottle lands on him he says it; knows Thomas would choose a dare because he was furious and eager to throw himself with abandonment into anything anyone asked; so Gilbert says, without even thinking; “kiss one of Alexander’s tattoos.” </p><p>He doesn’t consider whether Thomas would refuse or not. That’s his choice. But when he meets Thomas’ eye he knows the only way he’ll be forgiven is if Alexander says yes. </p><p>But then Thomas fixes him with a look he’s never been on the end of – even after siding with Alexander and through years of friendship and disagreements and loss and reconciliation. And it’s only then when he knows that dare was, quite possibly, the worst thing he had ever said.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from Oscar Wilde. </p><p>Anyway - I would apologise for this but I think it's a little late for that.<br/>I probably won't have time to post again before christmas, so I hope you all have a lovely day! Please stay safe, and take care of your families. </p><p>And, as always if you have some spare time please consider leaving a comment! You know I love them :)) </p><p>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. the devil will tell you nine truths</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a sculptor's touch, a highly strung wire, and the scent of nostalgia</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so, you've all heard me complain about not knowing where to go with this. I just wanted to say thank you for being patient, and for all your lovely comments. Literally, I'd be at the point of scrapping this and then someone would tell me how they were looking forward to the next part. Honestly that's the sole reason I kept writing. So, yeah; so much love &lt;3 </p><p>Also, I've stopped procrastinating. We're back to Alex's pov :) (Just in case there's any confusion, this chapter takes place a few days after Alex reads Eliot in class.)</p><p>A special thanks and my endless gratitude to @fitsofpassion; who offered me ideas and help to kick start this chapter, and then, when I finally wrote it, patient editing. I hope you still enjoy this the third time around!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alex!”</p><p>The shout of his name cut through the hum of soft chatter as people moved slowly through the corridor on their way to class. Alexander was late, as per usual, had skipped breakfast and was already regretting it. He had his Progressive Human Rights lecture now – meaning two whole hours where he had to stay awake and focused. A challenge he wasn’t particularly keen on.</p><p>He turned, eager for the excuse to dawdle and stopped short, finding himself face to face with Thomas.</p><p>“Hi?” he said, a little uncertainly. This was the first time he had seen Thomas in two days. When he’d asked Lafayette if there was anything wrong, Lafayette had only shrugged and muttered something along the lines of, <i>“demandez-lui vous-même.”</i> Alexander didn’t have the courage to seek Thomas out, figuring that if Thomas trusted him enough he would say if there was something bothering him. Alexander wasn’t too worried, however; midterms were almost upon them. Most of the students were now spending a majority of their time hunched over their notes in the library, or slouched half awake in the hall sipping their forth coffee of the day.</p><p>“You going to class?”</p><p>“Yes.” Alexander turned to keep walking, and there was a beat of weighted silence. “Um, is everything okay?”</p><p>“Sure?” Thomas shrugged, not quite meeting his eye. “What makes you think otherwise?”</p><p>Alexander wondered if he was being paranoid. Thomas was just probably stressed, like everyone else was. Besides, Alexander knew how important his exam results were to him – and to his family. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just haven’t seen you around so...”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas looked slightly uncomfortable. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d notice. I just had some stuff I had to figure out.”</p><p>Alexander nodded, still slightly unconvinced as they turned into the lecture theatre. “Sure. Well, let me know if you need… I don’t know.” He trailed off.  “Something…”</p><p>Thomas didn’t say anything, so he started climbing the stairs, but then suddenly Thomas’ fingers brushed lightly over his wrist sending thrills clenching his stomach. Alexander ignored the feeling.  </p><p>
  <i>“Merci, chéri.”</i>
</p><p>“Ah.” His mouth was suddenly very dry. “Anytime.”</p><p>Lafayette was already seated towards the back of the theatre, slumped in his seat with his arms crossed and looking morose.</p><p>“You look like a dream, darling.” Alexander smirked, dropping into the seat next to him.</p><p>“Would you like,” Lafayette turned to glare at them both, “to take a wild fucking guess who we must listen to today?”</p><p>“No.” Thomas groaned, shooting a quick glance down at the front.</p><p>“Not Burr?” Alexander asked, his irritation flaring.</p><p>Lafayette simply pursed his lips in response and Alexander followed Thomas’ gaze, squinting through the sea of heads as he tried to spot their usual professor.</p><p>“They can’t!” he said hotly when all he could find was Burr, shuffling through his papers; panic now mixing with the irritation. “We have exams soon! We don’t have time for his crap.”</p><p>Thomas started to laugh and Alexander whipped round. “Oh, you think this is funny, do you?”</p><p>“A little, yeah,” Thomas said, his eyes crinkling, and Alexander had to physically push away the urge to automatically smile back at him.</p><p>He contented himself with turning away from him in huffy silence, glaring dispassionately down at the lectern where Burr was laying out his notes and feeling mildly annoyed at how quickly Thomas could melt his resolve.</p><p>“Relax.” Thomas slid his arms around the back of Alexander’s seat, the tips of his fingers brushing his neck to try and coax him into turning around. But Alexander was suddenly rigid, a shiver running through him as the ghost of Thomas’ touch danced up and down his spine.</p><p>“You good?” Thomas frowned.</p><p>Alexander maintained his stoic glare at the lectern, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. “It’s cold.”</p><p>Beside him, Lafayette snorted, then Burr’s voice rang out over the theatre calling for silence and their attention. Alexander slumped down further, preparing himself for the inevitable waste of the next two hours.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>“Comment peux-tu ne pas lui dire? Tu l’aimes, pour l’amour de Dieu.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Je ne l’amour pas. J’ai juste de légers sentiments.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Tu es un putain de menteur.”</i>
</p><p>Their voices were soft in his ear, and it took Alexander a while to remember where they were. And what he was doing, specifically. Firm muscle was pressing into his cheek, and he frowned at the vague memory of running his hands over it.</p><p>He jerked his head off Thomas’ shoulder with a start, and both he and Lafayette jumped.</p><p>“Had sweet dreams, princess?” Lafayette smirked. “I’d fill you in,” he added, sourly, “but you haven’t missed anything.”</p><p>Alexander ignored him, turning instead to Thomas, unease settling in his stomach. “Did I fall asleep on you?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas shrugged. “Your fault for never actually going to bed like normal people do.”</p><p>“You could have woken me!” He felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”</p><p> “It’s fine.” Thomas turned to face the front, his expression closed. “I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Right.” Alexander looked at him uncertainly. Something about him seemed tense in a way that Alexander wasn’t sure how he knew to decipher. Heart beating, he reached out a tentative hand until his fingers brushed with Thomas’ and he gave them a squeeze. Thomas didn’t look at him, but parted his fingers, letting Alexander entwine their hands, and, emboldened, he leant over and pressed a kiss to the top of his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>They stayed like that for the remainder of the lecture, Alexander letting the dim drone of Burr’s voice lull him until he was almost asleep again, when there was a general scuffle as everyone shifted out of their seat, and people began moving towards the doors.</p><p>“Finally.” Lafayette muttered, as they grabbed their bags and made their way slowly down to the door. Somehow, Alexander was still clinging onto Thomas’ fingers.</p><p>“You’d think,” he said, turning back to face Lafayette, “that he would realise that no one actually gives a fuck about what he’s saying.”</p><p>“Ah, why would he care?” Lafayette glanced over to where Burr was talking – still talking – to one of the students who had the misfortune to sit in the front row. “He probably likes the sound of his own voice so much it makes up for the rest of us who don’t.”</p><p>Lafayette turned in the opposite direction at the door with a parting grimace, and Alexander followed Thomas to the end of the hall.</p><p>“Come study with me?”</p><p>“I can’t.” Thomas shook his head. “I have music now.”</p><p>Suddenly his eyes slid away from Alexander’s face, and he grinned at someone over Alexander’s shoulder.</p><p>“Hey Thomas.”</p><p>Abigail walked passed them, her eyes drifting over Thomas, and he turned to watch her as she turned the corner.</p><p>Alexander was suddenly very aware of their joined hands and let go abruptly, glaring at the movement of Abigail’s hips as she walked and decided she couldn’t look more like a turkey if she tried.</p><p>“Right,” he said curtly, as Thomas dragged his eyes away, “see you later then.”</p><p>He turned, hurrying off down the corridor, his face burning with embarrassment and wondering why he felt like such a fool.</p><p>“Wait!” Thomas called, and Alexander ignored him.</p><p>What was wrong with him? A twinge of something hot bubbled in his chest. So what if Thomas had looked at her? Thomas could look at whoever the fuck he liked. It really didn’t bother him. He squared his shoulders. It wasn’t like she was anything special, anyway. <i>Conventionally</i> pretty, Alexander scoffed, trust Thomas to go for someone like that. It wasn’t like he <i>cared,</i> but it was the principal of the thing. The asshole couldn’t even have <i>standards.</i> Would probably go for anyone if they crawled up to him the right way –</p><p>“Alexander!”</p><p>Angelica had to call him twice before he heard her, stopping shortly and turning around.</p><p>“What?” he growled, and the fact that he was now angry at Angelica for no apparent reason told him that maybe it actually <i>did</i> bother him, and even that slight possibility, that he had been weak enough to get Thomas fucking Jefferson get under his skin for <i>no reason</i> made his fists clench angrily, because he shouldn’t care, and Thomas could do whatever he wanted and he would keep repeating it until it was true.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>She rounded on him, cornering him against the wall, and his mind was still three corridors away, watching the way Thomas had smiled at Abigail so easily, so <i>naturally,</i> that it took Alexander a second to realise Angelica’s eyes were smouldering and she was looking at him with something close to disgust.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>This was so uncalled for he momentarily forgot to be preoccupied, glaring back at her and wondering why everyone thought they had a right to fuck with him of late, why now, on top of everything else – as if he didn’t have enough to preoccupy him at the moment what with exams and girls he could never hope to compete with.</p><p>“Why,” she hissed, punctuating each word, “didn’t you <i>tell</i> me.”</p><p>“Tell you <i>what?</i>”</p><p>“You think I don’t fucking know? Eliza told me everything. What,” her eyebrows rose dangerously as he shook his head, perplexed, “just because you obviously don’t think I’m important enough to bother talking to, doesn’t mean everyone thinks that.”</p><p>“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Alexander told her watching her eyes narrowing, and thinking if he could describe Medusa this would be her; Angelica with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing at the confidence that comes with knowing something and shaking with the barely concealed, simmering irritation at the injustice of his ignorance. He understood why legend had men cowering at the sight of her, and why you would be turned to stone from just a second of her gaze - and was feeling marginally impressed and perhaps a little jealous of the fact that he could <i>never</i> channel that same presence because his energy was just too <i>frantic</i> to ever be considered powerful, when Angelica slapped him, and the force of it left his mouth hanging open a little as his mind tried to rationalise what had just happened.</p><p>“What the fuck,” he gasped - and maybe his anger was a little scrappy, and probably too bubbly to ever match with hers but he could still <i>bite</i> when he wanted to – “was that for?”</p><p>“For thinking I’d be happy to hear it from Eliza instead of you.”</p><p>“Hear <i>what</i> from Eliza.” Why was he always the last one to know everything?</p><p>Angelica opened her mouth, pausing as her eyes swept over his face. Alexander watched her falter a little, feeling an undeserved stab of satisfaction.</p><p>“You…you don’t know.”</p><p>She didn’t pose it as a question, understanding clouding her features, her shoulders pulling back rigidly.</p><p>“Obviously not,” he glared at her, “care to enlighten me?”</p><p>She stepped back from him, her brow furrowed and shook her head. “Sorry.” And typically apologies weren’t Angelica’s forte so even though the residing sting across his cheek Alexander had enough grace to grudgingly accept it, “Sorry, that’s probably my fault. I left before Eliza had the chance to finish explaining.”</p><p>“That’s <i>nice.</i>” Lingering annoyance with Thomas was mingling with the apparent fact that they had all been gossiping about him for something he obviously had no clue about. “But if you aren’t going to tell me I have exams I have to pass.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said again, her eyes softening as she brought up a hand to brush her fingers over his stinging cheek. Irritated, he batted her hand away. “But I don’t think I can.”</p><p>He didn’t have time for this bullshit right now.</p><p>He turned to go, and she grabbed his arm.</p><p>“Wait. I think,” she paused, considering for a moment, then; “if you like Thomas, I think you should tell him.”</p><p>“I’ve already told you,” he said, gritting his teeth with the effort of keeping his voice lowered, annoyed that he had to constantly explain this to everyone, and <i>why</i> couldn’t they take the hint and see that people like him <i>never</i> fit with people like Thomas so it wasn’t even a question about liking or not liking it was about the simple fact of <i>no</i> -  “I <i>don’t</i> like him.”</p><p>“Alex,” she said, with impossible patience that did nothing to sooth his mood. “I’m being serious.”</p><p>“So am I.” He wrenched his arm away and started off in the direction of the library again, half expecting her to follow him.</p><p>When she didn’t he let the irritation stew as he walked, unseeing through corridors to the library, found a spare seat in a row amid the history section, and allowed it to fuel his energy, dropping his notes on the bench and starting on an practice essay for his poetry class.</p><p> </p><p>“There you are.”</p><p>Alexander ignored him, hand stoically moving across his page - letting the dull throb in his wrist fuel his residing temper, still simmering despite having sat here for hours.  </p><p>“I’ve been looking for you. Why weren’t you in class?” Thomas paused, taking in the messy heap of pages mounting on the bench beside him. “Have you been here all day?”</p><p>Alexander remained silent, telling himself he was ignoring Thomas because he was busy, not out of pettiness.</p><p>Thomas sighed, taking a seat next to him, uninvited. “Alex, you can’t miss class.”</p><p>“I can do whatever the fuck I like,” he snapped.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Thomas said quickly, shrugging off his shoulder bag, and Alexander felt his simmering anger flare again – he didn’t want compliance, wasn’t in the mood for Thomas to be <i>nice</i> to him, and why couldn’t he take a hint and snap back, but; “you didn’t miss much anyway, the pair who had to debate today were shit.”</p><p>Thomas leaned forward, resting his head on the desk and glancing up at him. “You could’ve beaten them in about ten minutes.”</p><p>And now here he was giving out compliments.</p><p>In spite of himself, Alexander felt a smile tug at his lips. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas was smiling back at him. “I missed you, you know. Turns out, class is pretty boring without listening to you grumble about everything.”</p><p>“I don’t <i>grumble,</i>” he protested, “I merely state the facts.” Why was it so impossible to stay angry at him? Alexander reasoned he should probably let it slide; it wasn’t Thomas’ fault his own head was a mess. Placing his pen down, he stretched out his aching fingers and was suddenly painfully aware of how empty his stomach was.</p><p>“What’s the time?”</p><p>“Just past nine,” Thomas frowned. “Why?”</p><p>Alexander sighed, picking up his pen again. Dinner would have finished a while ago now.</p><p>“Have you eaten today?” Thomas asked suddenly, his voice sharp.</p><p>“No,” Alexander said indifferently, reaching out for a fresh page, “I forgot.”</p><p>“You <i>forgot?</i>” Thomas sat up, his eyebrows rising incredulously.</p><p>Alexander shrugged it off. “I was busy.”</p><p>“Alex, you have to eat.” Thomas sighed, running a hand over his face and suddenly looking impossibly tired.</p><p>“Okay,” Alexander said quickly, relenting simply to wipe that look off his face. “Okay. I’ll actually go to breakfast tomorrow for once.”</p><p>Thomas looked at him silently for a moment before nodding.</p><p>“How was music?” Alexander asked, attempting to change the topic off his pathetic eating habits.</p><p>Thomas groaned, slumping forward and letting his forehead drop onto the bench. “Terrible. The professor made us stay there all afternoon, going on about fucking Tchaikovsky like we didn’t have anything better to do with our time.”</p><p>Alexander bit back a smile. “I thought you liked him.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Thomas’ reply was muffled slightly by the bench. “Things change.”</p><p>“I distinctly remember you telling me you thought his pieces were romantic.”</p><p>“I did <i>not.</i> I said they were <i>nice.</i>”</p><p>Alexander laughed, about to reply when Thomas moved slightly so his head was resting on Alexander’s page, his hair spilling out over his unfinished essay. Alexander looked down a little helplessly. Suddenly, his eye caught on the tip of an inked petal, peaking over the turtleneck of Thomas’ shirt.</p><p>Alexander froze. He had never seen Thomas’ tattoos before, and something told him that was for a reason. He ignored the petal, resting his arm across Thomas’ shoulders instead and hoping his heart wasn’t beating loud enough for him to hear it.</p><p>“You should get some sleep.”</p><p>Thomas turned so he could look up at him. “Are you leaving as well?”</p><p>“Uh, not yet.” He gestured to his books. “I just want to finish this last one.”</p><p>“Then I’m staying too,” Thomas muttered stubbornly. “Wake me when you’re done.”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid. Besides, you’re <i>on</i> my essay.”</p><p>Thomas grunted noncommittally and Alexander sighed.</p><p>“Please. I’ll be fine, I’ll leave as soon as I’m finished.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“For christsake,” Alexander muttered, trying not to think how easy it would be to bend down and press a kiss to that tattoo – just to see. Out of pure curiosity.  Simply because Angelica had put the thought in his head that night at the gala, and obviously he <i>knew</i> the tattoo would stay black - but it would be nice to be absolutely, completely certain, because maybe the thought <i>had</i> crossed his mind and maybe he needed a proper excuse to shut it out for good.</p><p>“Fine,” he told him, because he was tired and wasn’t sure how long self-control would hold out.</p><p>Thomas sat up, grinning, and, grabbing his books and following Thomas out the library, staring at the back of his now cotton-covered neck, Alexander felt a twinge of something close to regret.</p><p> </p><p>He swallowed, looking down at the pages clutched in his arms and wondering idly if that would be the first and last time he ever saw one of Thomas’ tattoos. He was so unfocused he didn’t notice Thomas had paused at the end of the aisle, waiting as someone crossed in front of them, and Alexander crashed ungainly into his back.</p><p>“Sorry!” he said quickly, stepping back as Thomas tensed.</p><p>He shook his head, and Alexander was walking a couple paces behind him now, just incase, before suddenly: “Can I ask you something?” Thomas asked, stopping abruptly, his entire demure changed in an instant, and maybe it was because they were all stressed and sleep deprived and their brains were tired of being crammed full, but Alexander had the distinct impression that his self-control wasn’t the only one being tested at the moment, because Thomas was rounding on him, and Alexander felt himself being backed into a wall for the second time that day, only this time his heart was frantically skidding in his chest for an entirely different reason.</p><p>“No,” he squeaked with a touch of defiance in a vain attempt to save his dignity.</p><p>“Why,” Thomas asked anyway, voice low as he loomed over him, “do you smell like jasmine?”</p><p>“Uh,” Alexander stuttered, momentarily thrown by the question, his insides squirming with embarrassment and who knew what else. “You can smell that?”</p><p>“Yes.” Thomas stepped, closer, and in the half darkness his eyes were impossibly dark. Looking up at him, Alexander suddenly got the impression of what it would feel like to be <i>under</i> him, and swiftly banished the thought before it had time to properly take root.</p><p>“<i>Yes,</i> and I’m tired, and I have to read a chapter on a bunch of Irish composers before I sleep, and how am I supposed to concentrate when I want to bury my face in your neck?”</p><p>Alexander stared up at him with his mouth hanging slightly open, hands gripping his books tightly to his chest, feeling slightly breathless and a little annoyed at Thomas’ audacity to say things like that, so <i>carelessly,</i> when he was too wired to really think straight at this point, and frankly it was just rude of him, because how was he <i>not</i> supposed to read into it, even though this was Thomas, who said and did things as though absolutely no one was in any way affected by them, because Alexander had <i>seen</i> the way he had looked at Abigail, even as Alexander’s own gaze had dropped to Thomas’ lips before he could stop it, and he could remember so clearly what they had felt like against his own even though he had promised himself he wouldn’t think of that. He wondered if Thomas would make <i>Abigail’s</i> entire body burn - would he kiss her soft and sweet like she was delicate and breakable, or desperately, like he knew she was and didn’t care – and Alexander had to shove Thomas roughly back and step away from him before he could do something entirely uncalled for, and utterly stupid; like remind them both what it felt like and to prove that maybe he bruised easily, but he wasn’t fragile enough to break, and maybe his hips weren’t round and soft like <i>her’s,</i> but he could still bend if he was asked. </p><p>“That,” Alexander said curtly after he had taken a deep breath that wasn’t at all calming, the last remaining shreds of his dignity had left him, and he was clinging to the remainder of his self control by the tips of his fingers, “would be entirely unproductive.”</p><p>“Not entirely.”</p><p>It was the fact that Thomas was smirking when he replied, solidifying the knowledge in Alexander’s mind that he just said whatever the fuck pleased him and not because he actually meant a thing of it, and it was that which made Alexander push his thoughts back with a firm <i>no,</i> because maybe he could bend, but he could never be coy and soft and whatever else Abigail was. How dare Thomas look at him like that, like he wanted him even though he so clearly didn’t. Not that Alexander wanted him to. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted at this point. </p><p>He hated himself for even <i>thinking</i> that he could mean anything.</p><p>“Really?” He raised a cool eyebrow. “Pretty sure it would be.”</p><p>He turned, walking out of the library and starting in the direction of their dorm room.</p><p>After a minute, Thomas followed him. “So,” he pressed, “you never answered the question.”</p><p>And here he was hoping Thomas would forget about that. He figured there was nothing for it but the truth.</p><p>“Ah.” He ducked his head in embarrassment, glad of the darkness as they crossed the grounds. “Well. Hah. My mamá used to get this jasmine soap, and there’s not really much that I have of her anymore, so I like to use it because it reminds me of how she used to smell.”</p><p>He pushed open the door of their dorm suite and let Thomas walk through first, trailing behind him so he didn’t have to see the look on his face, muttering, “I know it’s stupid.”</p><p>“No. Not stupid.”</p><p>“Really?” Alexander glanced up. Thomas had stopped by his door and was looking down at him. “Even though I’m clinging to something that’s never going to come back?”</p><p>Thomas frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with remembering things or people you’ve loved, Alex.”</p><p>“Maybe.” He shrugged doubtfully, marvelling at the fact that, not five minutes ago, they were hissing in each other’s faces but now Thomas was looking at him with something warm and soft in his eyes. Alexander thought that maybe that’s who they were – bruised, haphazard souls who oscillated seamlessly between hostility and endearment and maybe that’s what held them together.</p><p>“Anyway,” he said, remembering that Thomas had said he still had work to do. “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow?”</p><p>Thomas seemed to hesitate a moment, and something like disappointment flickered briefly through his eyes, but Alexander may have imagined that, because a second later Thomas shot him a wide grin before he turned to go. “You had better be there.”</p><p>Alexander watched him climb the stairs and told himself he would focus on the exams and then after, when he had got through those, then he could worry about whether or not their volatility would break them apart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from 'Shadowed Threads' by Shannon Mayer. </p><p>Again, sorry for the irregular updates. I will try (haha). And I really hope you liked this. I know they're both a bit all over the place - exam stress will do that to you!<br/>As always, if you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment, your thoughts mean so much to me :) </p><p>with love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. a sort of tender curiosity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>unacknowledged sentiments, daisies, a close call and some loss</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a...consistent update??? I SHOCK myself </p><p>Anyway; thank you all so much for all your comments last chapter. My little heart can barely handle it 💛</p><p>also I know a lot of you want Alex to hurry up and acknowledge things already. I get you, I do too. But he's getting there. Be patient with him for a couple more chapters. Poor boy has been through a lot and his self-confidence is really rock bottom, and he can't just casually throw himself into these things. I'll reward you all with a very dramatic realisation soon, never fear ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Little things – little, insignificant mannerisms were beginning to niggle at him, and Alexander wasn’t in the mood. He had other things to be thinking about. </p><p>Besides, he shouldn’t be noticing things like that at all. And he didn’t want to think about what it meant - didn’t have <i>time</i> to think about it - so he stashed them away; collected little things about Thomas and kept them for later. Or never. </p><p>Thomas’ habit of drawing little daisies in the margins of his page instead of taking notes. Alexander knew that he was about to snap at someone when a little crease appeared briefly between his brows; he’d go to push up his sleeves before realising what he was doing and tugging them further down over his wrists instead. The quiet spark that was in his eyes whenever he came back from his composition class. How he never bothered to dry his hair properly after a shower, and for the next hour or so little drops of water would drip down and soak into his shirt. Alexander always pretended he wasn’t watching.</p><p>How, mostly, Thomas would call him Alex, but occasionally, almost without thinking, he’d say Alexander with the barest hint of his French enunciation and it would stay in Alexander’s mind for the rest of the day. How he would write his notes on the back of old music scores, or half finished pieces from his classes. </p><p>Alexander had kept one of these papers one night during the middle of their midterm exams, when they were both tired and sick of studying and veering on the side of delirium. They had been debating, Alexander passionately and Thomas half-heartedly, whether coffee could still be considered coffee when the amount of milk in the cup outweighed the amount of caffeine. Thomas, with a huff, had taken out a sheet, crossed off ‘Beethoven, symphony 7; minor transposition’ and written, with a lilting smile; ‘the confessions of a struggling caffeine addict.’</p><p>“Fuck you,” Alexander said, biting back his own smile because Thomas was looking at him, his eyes alight with a cat-like mischievousness that had Alexander’s heart skipping an unnecessary beat. But then, because he loved watching Thomas compose; “What’s it for, piano?”</p><p>“No.” Thomas scoffed, and Alexander watched, slightly transfixed, as he looped out a treble clef - like you would write out a figure eight, quick and practiced and thoughtless. “You’re way too extravagant.”</p><p>“Wanker,” Alexander grinned, trying out the word because he’d heard Liz use it multiple times and liked the way it sounded.</p><p>That cat’s smile again.</p><p>“It’s for the entire orchestra. Even the instruments that are usually forgotten, like the triangles.”</p><p>“Egg shakers?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>The look Thomas gave him made his stomach lurch. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff. He blamed it on the built up stress.</p><p>“It’ll start,” Thomas said, scribbling, the dim lamplight flickering over his face, “with cymbals. Clanged together repeatedly with no beat or rhythm because that’s how you enter into everything.”</p><p>“I do <i>not</i>,” he was laughing now, “I’m perfectly fucking elegant.”</p><p>Thomas ignored him. “Did you know that Tchaikovsky has a piece where there are cannons let off in the middle of it?”</p><p>“Like, actual cannons? Boom boom, chao for now?”</p><p>Thomas gave an undignified snort. “Yes, that’s exactly how they sound.”</p><p>“That’s iconic.” He barked out a laugh, leaning over the page to see what Thomas was writing. He couldn’t understand any of it. “Put it in.”</p><p> </p><p>He slipped the sheet into his bag as they left the table, dithering while Thomas walked on ahead, too embarrassed to let Thomas see that he wanted to keep it, and much too shy to ask him to write another one.</p><p>Walking back to their dorms, Alexander asked, breaking the comfortable, sleepy quietness between them, “When I die, will you play at my funeral?”</p><p>“Bold of you to assume I won’t die before you.”</p><p>He could tell Thomas was grinning even through the darkness. He snorted. “I think not. I pledge here and now that I will beat you to it.”</p><p>“Darlin’. You can’t turn death into a competition.”</p><p>The pet name. The fact that he’d heard Thomas say it to countless other people yet still it had the audacity to throw him off balance.</p><p>“I can. I fucking will.”</p><p>Thomas pushed open the door of the stairwell. Alexander blinked in the sudden light, watching Thomas shake his head. “Anyway,” he started up the stairs first so that, for once, he was taller. “Will you?”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>Looking back, Alexander caught his smirk and almost tripped.</p><p>“Fine, but if I die first -”</p><p>“You won’t.” He stopped outside the door of his dorm.</p><p>“Of course.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “But if I <i>do</i>, then you have to read out a poem at mine.”</p><p>Alexander wrinkled his nose. “Why?”</p><p>“Because.”</p><p>“Tell me!” He started to laugh. “Don’t you want, I don’t know. Something fancy. A cello or something?”</p><p>“No, not really.” Thomas shrugged.</p><p>“Well I won’t be reading fucking anything until you tell me why.”</p><p>“Why what?”</p><p>“Imbecile.” Alexander whacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Why a poem?”</p><p>“Because,” Thomas ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed. Then; “Because I like listening to you read poetry.”</p><p>“Hah.” And now he was the embarrassed one. “You what?”</p><p>Anyone else, literally <i>anyone</i>, and he could’ve played it cool, could have said, ‘well, of course you do,’ or ‘as you fucking well should,’ but this was Thomas, and for some reason he couldn’t quite pin point and wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to, he could never quite get out a normal reaction around him.</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Thomas rubbed his neck, and his gaze, when he met Alexander’s eye, was a little defiant. “Don’t make me say it again.”</p><p>Alexander swallowed. “Aw,” he grinned to hide the slight wobble in his voice, rambling now to cover up his stutter, “why not? That was beautiful. Possibly the best compliment I’ve ever received. I think I’ll have it framed  - no, wait, <i>that’s</i> what I want read at my funeral, screw your piano.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Thomas was laughing softly, “I’m a good fucking pianist.”</p><p>“Yeah,” his grin widened. “And <i>I’m</i> good at reading poetry.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Thomas groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m leaving.”</p><p>“Hm. To dream of me reading -”</p><p>“I swear to god,” Thomas glared at him.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” he fought to straighten his expression, then; “would you like to hear one now? You know, one for the road.”</p><p>“You dick,” Thomas was laughing in spite of himself as he backed away, “say that one more time and your funeral will be sooner than you think.”</p><p>“What!” he gave a dramatic gasp, “you wouldn’t dare!”</p><p>“Yeah?” Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t I?”</p><p>He laughed as Alexander scowled at him, turning around to climb the stairs, pausing briefly to call “night,” over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>John was still up when Alexander pushed open the door of their room.</p><p>“What are you smiling about?” he asked, looking up from his notes.</p><p>“I’m not smiling.” Alexander said, dumping his bag onto his bed and hastily wiping the smile off his face.</p><p>John narrowed his eyes. “Who were you just with.”</p><p>“No one.”</p><p>“Really,” John grinned, raising his eyebrows disbelievingly, “so you haven’t just been shamelessly flirting the entire evening.”</p><p>“I don’t <i>flirt</i>,” he said indignantly, glaring as John started to laugh.</p><p>“Oh? So explain to me this; why is it that here we are in the middle of exams – which normally means you’re so stressed I can’t even look at you without getting my head bitten off, and you’re being, dare I even say… pleasant?”</p><p>“Well, that is my life ambition,” Alexander grinned, slumping down on his bed, “to be unpredictable. Keep heads turning, you know. It sparks peoples’ interest.”</p><p>“I can think of someone whose interest is more than sparked.”</p><p>Alexander ignored him. “Anyway. Who’s the hypocrite? You never bother with exams.”</p><p>“No, well.” John glared down at his notes. “Louise thinks they’re important, so. Here I am.”</p><p>“Oh, nice. So I’ve been telling you that for years and I get nothing, but as soon as she says it then it’s gospel I suppose.”</p><p>“Yeah.” John shook his hair out of his eyes, grinning. “Yeah pretty much.”</p><p>“Very much the smitten kitten. How dignified.” He pulled his books from his bag.</p><p>“You and me both,” John muttered, turning back to his notes with a slight smirk.</p><p>“Excuse me.” Alexander threw his copy of ‘American Constitutional Law: Introductory Essays and Selected Cases’ at John’s head and missed spectacularly. “My dignity is very much intact.”</p><p>Although, he thought, getting up with a huff to retrieve the book from the corner of the room where it had landed, perhaps the fact that he slipped ‘confessions of a struggling caffeine addict’ between the pages of T.S.Eliot instead of leaving it in the library said otherwise.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
It was the morning of his last exam, and Alexander was sitting on the floor in the middle of his room; surrounded by the entire contents of both his and John’s suitcases, and very close to tears.</p><p>John poked his head around the door. “Why haven’t you left yet?” he started, then frowned as he caught sight of the mess. “Still can’t find it?”</p><p>“No!” Alexander wailed, looking around a little despairingly.</p><p>John sighed, picking his way through the piles of books and clothes to sit on the edge of Alexander’s bed, reaching out to run a hand through his hair.</p><p>“Alex,” he said soothingly, “you don’t even need it. You know the damn book by heart and worrying isn’t going to help you find it. Just come down and eat something.”</p><p>“But it’s not about whether I know the book or not. I <i>know</i> that I know it,” he explained for what felt like the tenth time that morning, his voice rising a little hysterically, “it’s my <i>tradition.</i> I <i>need</i> that book.”</p><p>“Right,” John was hiding a smile, “the tradition. How could I forget.”</p><p>“Don’t you mock me you asshole,” Alexander glared up at him, annoyed that John wasn’t taking it seriously even though he knew, at the back of his mind, that it was stupid. But tons of people had pre-exam rituals. John slept with his notes under his pillow the night before any exam, so he could hardly talk. Alexander had to bring whatever book they were studying with him. That was just how he functioned. And he and John had their exam for their English literature class in forty-five minutes, and he couldn’t find his copy of The Great Gatsby anywhere. It was an extreme tragedy.</p><p>John stood up. “Alex, we have to go. I think it’s better to arrive with no book than not arrive at all. You can borrow mine if you like.”</p><p>“It doesn’t work like that.” He looked dejectedly around at the mess, and then the clock. John was right.</p><p>“I’m going to fail if I don’t have it,” he muttered, grabbing his pens and following John out of the room, feeling as though he was leaving without one of his limbs.</p><p>John laughed. “Alex, we both know you’re not going to fail.”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” he said indignantly, squinting slightly in the harsh sunlight as they stepped out into the quad. It was relatively empty these days, most students already in the library or an exam by the early morning. There were still a few days left until the start of the midterm break, but Alexander was glad his timetable finished earlier than most. He was tired of it all, tired of having to condense his knowledge into a few pages in only two or three hours. What was the point of time limits when he could write about everything they had learnt for <i>days.</i> Thomas thought this was funny. </p><p>John looked over and caught his haggard expression. “Hey,” he soothed, reaching out to catch Alexander’s hand as they entered the hall. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Lafayette and Eliza were sitting alone together at the end of one of the benches, heads bent and plates forgotten. They stopped talking abruptly as John sat down, their eyes flitting briefly to Alexander. He didn’t have the energy to be angry about it.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Eliza asked kindly, smiling at them both. “Ready?”</p><p>Beside him, John shrugged, pulling a plate of toast towards himself and starting to butter a piece. Silently, he passed it to Alexander before starting on another.</p><p>Louise stopped off on her way to her own exam to wish John good luck, and Alexander was on his second cup of coffee when Lafayette pulled the mug out of his hands.</p><p>“Enough. Or you’ll be too shaky to write anything.”</p><p>Alexander glared at him, and was opening his mouth to protest when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Something in him that had been shaky before the coffee stilled for the first time all morning. He looked up at Thomas with a grateful smile, wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to wrap his arms around his waist and cling there.</p><p>“Guess what?” Thomas grinned, swinging a leg over the bench so he could sit facing him.</p><p>“What?” Alexander asked, a little wearily, watching as Thomas dug in his bag.</p><p>“I brought you something.” Thomas pulled a copy – <i>his</i> copy, judging by the red ink stain in the top right-hand corner - of The Great Gatsby out of his bag and placed it with a slight smirk on the table in front of him. </p><p> “No!” he gasped, the last of the tension leaving him. He had been looking for that <i>all morning.</i> “Where did you find it?”</p><p>“Well I knew you’d lost it,” Thomas shrugged, “and knowing you, you’d probably refuse to take the exam or something stupid if you didn’t have it, and you were at the library yesterday so I just thought I’d check. Someone had put it back on the shelf.”</p><p>“You didn’t have to do that.” This was too much. He was tired and close to tears for the second time that morning because Thomas cared about his stupid rituals enough to find the damn book for him.</p><p>“Alex!” Thomas laughed, seeing his expression, and then made matters a thousand times worse; leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his temple and brushing his hair behind his ear. “It’s alright, darlin’.”</p><p>Alexander turned to look at him, eyes watering, and shook his head. Whatever this boy was doing to him he could barely keep up. “How did you even know I had lost it?”</p><p>The soft fondness suddenly evaporated from Thomas’ gaze as his eyes went wide. “I…” he started, turning to Lafayette who was staring at him with an expression Alexander couldn’t read.</p><p>He frowned. “What?”</p><p>“I told him,” John said quickly, leaning around Louise so Alexander could see him. “I told him this morning.”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander shrugged, “well, thank you.”</p><p>“Hah,” Thomas gave a nervous laugh, glancing briefly at Lafayette. “Of course.”</p><p>Alexander watched him swallow. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure.” Thomas’ jaw clenched slightly, and Alexander stared at him, brow furrowing. “Relax, I’m good. Do you want to go?”</p><p>“Oh.” The question jolted him back to the reality of where he had to be. “Not really.”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”</p><p>“Don’t you have to study?” He knew Thomas had his last exam today as well - one for music. </p><p>“Nah, I’ll do it later.”</p><p> Alexander nodded, convinced; the notion of waiting outside the exam room with Thomas seeming marginally less daunting than standing outside the room alone, and so he stood, glancing around at John who shook his head.</p><p>“You two go on, I’ll just be a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>There was already a line outside their classroom. Alexander joined the end of the queue, glancing nervously up and down the gaggle of students. He had to beat them, if he wanted his scholarship to be granted for next year. This was what he had worked for. He knew Fitzgerald like the back of his hand. Better than the back of his hand, because that was a stupid expression. He could do this. But still, his heart was pounding - although maybe that was the coffee, which, now he thought about it probably hadn’t been the best decision, and he was lifting his hand, falling subconsciously into his old habit of chewing his nails before he could tell himself to stop being so ridiculous.</p><p>He felt Thomas’ touch on his wrist, gently dragging his hand back down. Alexander looked up in time to catch his smile.</p><p>“Stop that. You’ll be fine.”</p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes, his lips quirked up softly at the corners. “You have the book now. What could possibly go wrong?”</p><p>Alexander opened his mouth, and paused. “I don’t know? Everything?”</p><p>John appeared at the end of the corridor just as their door opened, and the professor started ushering them inside, marking names off as they went.</p><p>John shot him a grin, easy and confident, and Alexander glared at him. John could speak for himself.</p><p>“Alex. Enough.” Thomas gave his hand a squeeze.</p><p>“When’s music?” Alexander asked him, one eye on the line, growing steadily shorter as the students filed one by one into the classroom.</p><p>Thomas grimaced. “Two.”</p><p>“Oh, easy. I’ll be out before then.” He moved up the corridor, pushing John in front of him. “I’ll come and find you?”</p><p>Thomas nodded, then seemed to hesitate slightly, throwing a quick glance over at John, who had his head bent over the professor’s page as they both tried to find his name. Thomas stepped forward, and, as though on a whim, pressed a kiss to Alexander’s cheek, whispering, before he turned away; <i>“bonne chance, chéri.”</i></p><p>Alexander gaped after him. The <i>French.</i> </p><p>“Hamilton!”</p><p>He jumped, and spun around. The professor was eyeing him, eyebrow raised.</p><p>“Sorry!” He gasped quickly, taking the pen the professor offered and signing the page in the spot next to his name.</p><p>He slipped behind the last empty desk, placed The Great Gatsby underneath his chair, and straightened, flexing his fingers. The professor had made his way to the front, was scribbling instructions and finish times on the blackboard, and calling everyone to clear their desk of all items. <i>Do not turn over the page in front of you. Do not pick up your pen until I give you leave to do so.</i></p><p>He could do this. He <i>knew</i> this. Two more hours and then it would be over.</p><p>His cheek still burning, he glanced to his right. John rolled his eyes, already slouched back languidly in his seat as though he did this every day. Alexander stifled a grin.</p><p>The professor gave them a nod. With a deep breath, he turned over his page, and, for the next two hours, let his pen dictate the cacophony in his brain. He thought about dog biscuits, decomposing apathetically, about Daisy, poor, silly Daisy who had two lives pulsating around her, one from now and one from before and, god, how exhausting that would be. He thought about a life, rich and pulsating and simultaneously so painfully empty; a life that was full to bursting with people, of hundreds of faces, thousands of voices, your name on countless lips – yet, still, even with all that: a lonely funeral, an unbearable sadness, and a quiet, solitary death. A necessary, though perhaps undeserved retribution.</p><p> </p><p>Two and a half hours later, their papers had been collected and their professor had waved them wearily away – as though he had taken the exam, rather than simply sat there. John parted with a wink at the end of the corridor; he was off to find Louise, who also had her last exam today, and was meant to finish around now. Alexander made his way towards Thomas’ room, feeling light with a giddy relief. Post exam euphoria was a feeling he always savoured, because it never lasted very long. The sun seemed a little brighter and the corridors just a little more beautiful, with their arched stained glass windows and walls dotted with the occasional renaissance painting.</p><p>Alexander pushed open the door of Thomas’ room without knocking, and found him lying idly on his bed, head propped up in his hands and staring not at the papers spread out around him, but up at Nina, swimming contentedly around her bowl.</p><p>He glanced up with a smile as Alexander dropped his book and pens on the ground and lay down on the bed beside him.</p><p>“How was it?”</p><p>“Fine.” Alexander grinned.</p><p>“Really.” Thomas raised his eyebrows, deadpan. “Why does that not shock me.”</p><p>“Yeah, well. You never know.” He looked around at Thomas’ notes. “How are you going?”</p><p>“Eh.” He lifted a haughty shoulder. “I don’t need to study.”</p><p>“Presumptuous twat.” More slang of Liz’s. Alexander was starting to really like her. “Here, I’ll help you.”</p><p>“I don’t need <i>help.”</i> Thomas snorted. “I know this.”</p><p>“Well, tell me anyway. Bet I can find something you don’t know.”</p><p>“You won’t.”</p><p>“Won’t I? Prove it.”</p><p>Thomas glared at him. “Fine.” He scooped up the notes into a neat pile and handed them to Alexander, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling with a bored indifference. “Try me.”</p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes. “See, this is why I hated you.”</p><p>“What,” Thomas cracked a grin, “because I’m intelligent?”</p><p>“No, dickwad. Because you’re an arrogant bastard.”</p><p>“Eh. <i>Comme ci, comme ça.</i> Arrogant bastard, tastefully confident.”</p><p>“<i>Un</i>tastefully entitled.” He scanned the page. Thomas’ professor had apparently given them a list of practice questions. “Okay, wait – what the fuck?” He laughed. “‘What was the texture of Renaissance music?’ The hell does that mean?”</p><p>Thomas glared at him. “Don’t you dare mock it -”</p><p>“What was it then?” Alexander grinned down at him. “Creamy? A little gnarly around the edges? Limp, dare I say? May I interest you in this particularly stiff piece?”</p><p>“Fuck you.” Thomas was laughing. “You’re insulting my favourite musical period - practically the golden age. Now who’s the presumptuous one?”</p><p>“So? What was it then?”</p><p>“Polyphonic. Melodies accompanied by harmonies. You know, blended, unified. Complementary. Each section of the piece worked to build the others; and together they create a synthesised whole.”</p><p>Alexander nodded. “So, I was right then? Slicked together? Fused? Consummated?”</p><p>“I can’t believe you are likening <i>that</i> to the pinnacle of music history.”</p><p>“Well, <i>someone</i> had to make the connection.” He swatted Thomas with the notes. “You were just too <i>shy.</i>”</p><p>“Hm. Really. Maybe you should take the exam for me, then.”</p><p>“I really should. I’d write you an excellent essay. Give the professors something proper to gossip about. It would be the best entertainment they’d see all year.”</p><p>Thomas whacked him. “Ask another.”</p><p>“Wait! That’s your whole essay? Poly-something. Full stop? One word response. I mean,” he gave an exaggerated eye roll, “who needs elaboration when you can manipulate ‘concise’ with that kind of expertise?”</p><p>“What is <i>with</i> you?” Thomas was laughing again.</p><p>“<i>Amor</i>. Please.” Alexander scoffed. “I never have to write about Daisy being a wet fucking blanket again. And I’m pretty sure I’ve just gotten full marks for talking some crap about the dichotomy between her idealised and conscious desire. I’m in my <i>element.</i>”</p><p>Thomas smiled up at him, and said softly; “You wear confidence exceptionally well, <i>chéri.</i>”</p><p>And now confident was the last thing Alexander was feeling.</p><p> </p><p>The nearer two o’clock drew, however, the more nervous Thomas got. He didn’t say anything, but his lips were pressed in a line that got progressively thinner as time wore on. At one thirty, when he had run his hand through his hair for the ninth time that afternoon, and Alexander was starting to feel his jitteriness <i>himself</i>, he put the notes down and decided enough was enough.</p><p>“<i>Todo es bueno, querido.</i>” He pushed Thomas’ hand back down. “What are you worried will happen?”</p><p>“Nothing. I’m not worried.” Thomas shrugged, with a display of indifference Alexander didn’t buy. “I’m fine.” He threw a quick glance at the wall above his desk as though he couldn’t help himself. Alexander followed his gaze.</p><p>His family. Of course he was thinking of his family. Alexander eyed the girl in the photograph he had spotted the last time he was here, her smile wide and her arms around the younger Thomas.</p><p>“Why does it all have to be on you?” He asked. “Can’t she take some of the burden? You could run the firm together?”</p><p>“Who? Jane?” Thomas glanced at the wall again, his jaw clenched. “No.” It came out harsh.</p><p>“But why?” Alexander pressed, “then you wouldn’t have to worry so much, and you could do music properly.”</p><p>“Alex, drop it.” Thomas pushed himself up. “I should go, anyway.”</p><p>“Oh, okay.” Alexander scrambled up after him. “Do you want me to come?”</p><p>Thomas shook his head. “I already told Martha I would meet her.”</p><p>“Oh.” He stomached the slight pang of disappointment he had no right to feel. He’d forgotten they took that class together. Thomas had turned away from him, and was rummaging around on the desk.</p><p>“Fuck…why can you never find a pen when you want one?”</p><p>“Here,” Alexander bent down to pick up his discarded ones, “have mine.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>They looked at each other.</p><p>“It’ll be fine,” Alexander said hastily, “don’t think about the ‘what if’s’, just write.”</p><p>Thomas nodded.</p><p>“I can meet you there after?” he offered, “we can nick one of Laf’s gin bottles that I’m one hundred per-cent certain he’s got stashed somewhere, and go down to the lake?” <i>And we’ll get good and drunk, I’ll get careless, and you’ll get giddy and mumble to me in French. Maybe I’ll be good enough; maybe I’ll lean over and kiss you, and maybe you’ll let me.</i></p><p>No, not that last part. Definitely not that last part.</p><p>“Okay.” Thomas smiled softly. “You know which room?”</p><p>Alexander nodded, swallowing. “At five?”</p><p>Thomas nodded.</p><p>“Well, <i>buena suerte,</i>” he mirrored Thomas’ parting that morning.</p><p>Thomas looked down, passing the pens from one hand to the other. He hesitated then; “what, no good luck kiss?”</p><p>“Oh, sorry,” Alexander rolled his eyes. “Didn’t realise I was ruining some ritual there.” He stepped forward and leant up, pressing his lips to Thomas’ cheek.</p><p>The door opened and Martha poked her head around. Alexander stepped back hastily, almost tripping over himself.</p><p>“Ooh!” She grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”</p><p>Thomas glared at her, following her out of the room. <i>“Ne soyez pas condescendant.”</i></p><p>Alexander heard her laugh fading down the hall, and collected The Great Gatsby from the floor before shutting the door softly behind him. He wandered slightly aimlessly for a few minutes, ending up at the library where he found Eliza, Maria and Liz bent over a table, heads together and giggling softly, their notes forgotten.</p><p>“Alex, Alex!” Liz glanced up with a bright smile as he drew near them. </p><p>“Look at this!” Eliza flourished the paper they had been leaning over. “Most hilarious thing I’ve read all year.”</p><p>“What is it?” He slipped into a seat beside Maria, who immediately slid her legs into his lap. </p><p>Eliza pushed the paper under his nose. “A letter from my dearest mother, telling me to hurry up and find a soulmate.” She put on a high, snooty voice, “it is of the <i>utmost</i> importance…Elizabeth you are getting <i>old.</i>”</p><p>Alexander grinned. “Should we write a reply.”</p><p>Maria snorted. “I <i>told</i> you we should have found him earlier. Where were you, anyway.”</p><p>“With Thomas.”</p><p>“Ohh,” Liz grinned, glancing at Eliza, “were you now.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Give me a pen.” He pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards himself. “What do you call her?” He turned to Eliza with a smirk, “mum, mummy, O’ Catherine the great and powerful?”</p><p>Eliza laughed. “I call her that and she’d never speak to me again.”</p><p>“Put it down then,” Liz leaned forward. “And use lots of commas and flourishes.”</p><p> </p><p>Just before Thomas’ exam was due to end, Alexander left the girls to continue, well, not studying, and climbed the stairs up to the classroom. The students were just starting to file out, some wearing the haggard, resigned looks of those who know that even a pass is too much to hope for - and others satisfied relief.</p><p>Alexander leaned against the wall opposite the door to wait, but when Martha appeared, five or so minutes later, she shut the door behind her.</p><p>He stepped forward. “Where’s Thomas?”</p><p>“Oh, hey Alex.” She smiled at him, a little tired, but otherwise nothing seemed amiss. “Um, he left about ten minutes before the exam finished. Some professor called him outside, and he never came back.”</p><p>“What?” Confusion washed over him, followed closely by barely contained panic. “Why? Is he alright? Did something happen?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” Martha waved her hand dismissively. “You know his family are a bit uptight, sometimes. They probably had an event or something, and wanted him there. I wouldn’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander selfishly let slight annoyance chase away his worry. “So he’s already left for break?”</p><p>Martha shrugged. “Probably? He would’ve come back otherwise, if you were meant to meet him.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander frowned. “Are you sure he’s alright.”</p><p>“He’ll be fine,” Martha smiled up at him. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”</p><p>He shook his head, wondering if he was only annoyed because he wouldn’t see Thomas again for two weeks. He told himself that <i>wasn’t</i> the reason.</p><p>“Feel like eating with me?”</p><p>“Sure,” he grinned at her, and started to lead the way down the corridor. “So, how did it go?”</p><p>“Well,” she began, and went off into a detailed description of the question. </p><p>She was sharp, Alexander realised as he listened. No wonder she and Thomas were so close. <i>Fiery</i>, he had called her. Alexander could see what he had meant. She was quick witted as well, taking his cynicism and giving back as good as she got. By the time they had finished eating, Alexander felt like he had known her his whole life, and, laughing with her until the hall had nearly cleared, he almost, <i>almost</i> forgot about Thomas.</p><p> </p><p>“So <i>rude</i> of him,” he grumbled, probably unjustly, to John the next morning, attempting with a slight struggle to untangle his shirt. John was placidly ignoring him, focused on packing his bag; he was leaving with Louise later today. “Not even saying goodbye.” As if Thomas’ world revolved around him. Alexander knew he had no right to complain and it only made him feel worse. He was already missing him and it hadn’t even been an entire day. “Fucking impolite, that is, just plain -”</p><p>“Holy shit!”</p><p>He whipped round, dropping the shirt in surprise. “What?”</p><p>John was kneeling on the floor facing him, eyes blown wide, his hand stretched out halfway to grabbing a pile of neatly folded clothes. “Uh. You have a new tattoo.”</p><p>“I do?” His heart leapt. “Where?”</p><p>“On your back.” John frowned. “Geez. It’s fucking massive.”</p><p>Alexander twisted around, trying to see over his own shoulder. “What is it?”</p><p>“A river. Here.” John pushed himself up off the floor and opened the door of their wardrobe, where they had taped a small, rather dirty mirror.</p><p>He stared, his neck twisted in order to see, mouth slightly agape. It <i>was</i> massive. All his other tattoos, the few that actually existed, were relatively small. It was beautiful as well, cascading from the nape of his neck, lovingly twisting around the edges of his spine like water runs along the banks of a mountain, or hugs the edges of a forest. It bubbled softly, all foam and gentle ripples, over rocks and moss and delicate fallen tree branches. Softness and curves and pure feminine sensuality.</p><p>“Wow.” He dragged his eyes away, and shot John a grin. “Let’s hope my soulmate hasn’t drowned or something. Our odds are bad enough as it is.”</p><p>“Alex. For christsakes.” John eyed him reproachfully. “Don’t say that.”</p><p> </p><p>He saw John and Louise off just after breakfast, and Lafayette not long after that. Liz and Hercules had already left late last night to stay with Hercules’ family, and mid afternoon, a sleek beige car pulled up at the gates for Eliza, Angelica and Maria. The university had been steadily emptying all day, with only a few students remaining with a last exam to get through, or whose family lived overseas.</p><p>Alexander found himself back in Thomas’ room around sunset, and grumbled for a while to Nina. Unlike John, she didn’t roll her eyes.</p><p>It was only the next morning, when he was back, lying on Thomas’ bed and feeling morose, that he realised he had been talking to her for over two hours. He decided he had been pathetic enough for the week. Poor Nina. If she could have drowned herself, she probably would’ve done so as soon as he walked through the door. But Alex felt sad for her, all alone in the room in an empty dorm suite, so he went to the library and, after struggling with himself for a second, let his feet carry him to the music section.</p><p>He came back half an hour later with ‘The Life and Letters of Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky,’ telling himself he was reading it so he wouldn’t be lost, like he usually was when Thomas talked about him, and not because Thomas thought his pieces were “basically a love language.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. And the quote in the middle is taken from "a tin of large hard dog biscuits—one of which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk." </p><p>As always, if you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment - you know how I love them. </p><p>much love x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. something about angel wings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>the river that dried up</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Every time I read one of your comments from last chapter I felt like a proud mum; you all know what's coming. I listened to Yo-Yo Ma's Ave Maria while I was editing this which was a mistake because I'm sad as hell </p><p>If you find this chapter a little heavy please feel free to come and rant to me :) my tumblr is superloonyluna</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Four days later, Alexander was sitting at one of the tables in the great hall just after dusk - alone and surrounded by books. He couldn’t work in Thomas’ room. He could barely <i>think</i> in Thomas’ room. It was another curiosity he wasn’t in the mood to figure out yet, and from experience he knew the best distraction was an obsession. So here he was with every book he could find on Homer. Greek mythology was a chaotic mess he was more than willing to lose himself in.</p><p>Across from him, a movement caught his eye and he looked up.</p><p>His elbow jerked off the table. “What..?” he started, completely thrown; “What the hell are you doing here?”</p><p>Thomas was standing there, looking a little rough around the edges, his shoulders slightly slumped, eyes a little hollowed.</p><p>“I went to your room,” he waved a hand in the direction of the dorms. “You weren’t there.”</p><p>“No,” Alexander said slowly, and then, because he couldn’t think properly; “I was…here.”</p><p>Thomas didn’t smile, but glanced around at the books before asking; “can I sit?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah?” Alexander frowned, “is something wrong? Why are you back?”</p><p>“Uh…” Thomas swung his leg over the bench and sunk down, lifting a hand to rub his eyes, his forehead knitting together.</p><p>Alexander realised, with a slight jolt, that Thomas’ hand was shaking. “What is it?” he asked abruptly, his chest tightening. “Thomas? Has something happened?”</p><p>“I…” Thomas was looking around the hall with wild sort of desperation, as though searching for something he couldn’t quite find. Alexander could hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears.</p><p>“Thomas!” He said again, because the look in Thomas’ eyes was scaring him. Alexander glanced over him quickly, trying to find something out of place, something that would explain all of this – was he hurt? Was he in pain? But something was nudging at his conscience because even as he searched for physical marks, for blood, for bruises, he knew the shadowy thing lingering behind Thomas’ look that just stopped Alexander reaching him. He had felt it himself too many times.</p><p>And so he knew what was coming - even before Thomas took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging, his mouth pressing into a thin, pinched line.</p><p>“Jane,” he swallowed thickly, “uh, my sister died.”</p><p>There was a beat of silence. They stared at each other, then;</p><p>“Oh my god.”</p><p>Alexander looked frantically up and down the table to find the quickest way to him.  The next break was ten paces away. “Oh my <i>god</i>.” He was scrambling now, brain slipping into a hazy panic, aware of what his limbs were doing only after they had moved. Ten paces seemed impossibly long, and he couldn’t think, and so slipped off his bench and crawled under the table. He had a brief view of Thomas’ hands, clenched tightly on his lap as he poked his head up on the other side of the table before climbing up beside him.</p><p>Thomas blinked at him in disbelief.</p><p>“Did you just…” he started, shaking his head.</p><p>Alexander felt colour flooding his cheeks and ignored Thomas’ question. “When?”</p><p>“The last day of midterms.” Thomas’ voice was deadened slightly, his accent, normally drawing out each syllable so it was elongated and almost rounded, seemed to fall a little flat.</p><p>“Oh,” he said slowly as his brain clicked into realisation, “that’s why you left.”</p><p>Thomas nodded.</p><p>“Was it…” Alexander hesitated, watching him. “Was it, uh, you know. Was she, I mean…” a reputation for running his mouth and here he was unable to get out a cohesive sentence. He stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “Was it… unexpected?”</p><p>“No,” Thomas said quickly, then shrugged. “Well, not really. She…” he glanced sideways, and Alexander frowned, catching the look Thomas was giving him. “She was about to turn thirty.”</p><p>The furrow in his brow deepened as he struggled to understand what Thomas was trying to say. Then; “Oh.” His heart sank as the reality of it filled him. “She hadn’t met her soulmate?”</p><p>Thomas shook his head, holding his gaze. There was a strangeness to his expression that was distinctly unsettling. “No. No, she did meet them.”</p><p>Oh. <i>Oh.</i></p><p>Alexander felt his eyes widen, a gasp caught somewhere at the back of his throat. Dimly, he recalled their conversation, all those weeks ago at the beginning of term. Back when they could barely look at each other without starting an argument. Sitting at a table in the library, their question for practical law between them - the first thing they had actually agreed on; ‘you should not dedicate your life to the search of your soulmate.’ </p><p>They’d won the debate, even though Alexander was pretty certain the entire class, including the professor, agreed with the opposition. ‘You’re a good pair,’ their professor had told them. And then that they communicated seamlessly. To the class he had said this was proof that the popularity of an argument didn’t determine its success. The layer’s capability did. </p><p>Alexander could still remember their points, scribbled in Thomas’ infuriatingly neat hand writing on the back of a used score sheet. Later, Alexander found out that Thomas wrote all his notes on scrap paper left over from his composition class.</p><p>1. No soulmate = death<br/>2. 2/3 of population – no soulmate = death. (Below this he had scribbled, ‘aka; a lot of people. Although, possible rebuttal; necessary culling??’ Thomas had circled that last note and written; ‘ruthless dickhead’.)<br/>3. Death at <s>30 40</s> 35<br/>4. Rejection = death</p><p>Really, they were all up against impossible odds.</p><p>There he was, rolling his eyes. And Thomas, stoically repeating “it’s not worth the risk.” Alexander had never imagined that he was speaking from experience.</p><p>Stricken with a sudden horror, he grappled with his memory, trying to remember if he’d responded with something dismissive. Knowing him, he probably had.</p><p>He closed his eyes, kicking himself for being so unfeeling. No wonder Thomas had hated him; here he was thinking Thomas was the one who started all the arguments, who had been the perpetrator of their animosity, when really it had been him all along.</p><p>“I’m…” He stopped, looking across at Thomas.</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas said heavily, then burst out; “he was such a fucking bastard. Breaking her heart. <i>Killing her.</i> For what? Spite? Pride? Lack of fucking humanity?”</p><p>Alexander didn’t know what to say.</p><p>“Alex, I don’t…” he said suddenly, his voice breaking a little at the end in a way that twisted Alexander’s heart, and he reached out without thinking; gripping Thomas’ cheek, digging his fingers in to stop them shaking, pulling Thomas’ face around so Alexander could look at him. Thomas met his gaze with a wild stare, so helpless and lost and Alexander would have given anything to take that pain away from him.</p><p>“I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>There wasn’t really anything. That’s life; trust, and you’re betrayed. </p><p>Half a head taller than him, hands that could easily cover his own; and suddenly, Thomas seemed impossibly small. Alexander had a sudden image of himself, twelve years old, curled at the foot of his mamá’s bed. Parents are always supposed to be bigger – wiser, stronger; yet in his arms, his mamá had seemed like a child.</p><p>Alexander shook his head, pulling Thomas into him, and Thomas slumped against his side, hands reaching out to grip the fabric of Alexander’s faded woollen jumper.</p><p>Closing his eyes, Alexander pressed his cheek into Thomas’ curls, feeling his body shake slightly in a ragged exhale. He wanted to tell him it would be okay. He wanted to ask why Thomas had never said anything. Ask why Thomas thought he had to carry this alone.</p><p>But later. There would be time for that later. He had suffered through more loss than anyone should have to go through, and although words usually rattled out of him in an uncontrollable torrent, he’d leant, over time, that sometimes more could be said through silence.</p><p> </p><p>At five to midnight, the door of the hall opened a crack and the man on night security poked his head round.</p><p>“Sorry,” he called down softly when he spotted them, “but I gotta’ lock up. Do ya mind movin’ to the library or sommat’?”</p><p>Alexander nodded. They hadn’t moved for over an hour, and he half wondered if Thomas had fallen asleep, but a second later he stirred, pushing himself up.</p><p>“Come on,” Alexander nudged him gently, leaning across the table to gather his forgotten books together. “I’ll walk you.”</p><p>Thomas sat silently, staring at the table, his eyes vacant.</p><p>“<i>Vamanos, querido</i>,” Alexander said softly, his heart breaking a little. How do you keep going when the thing you prayed would never, ever happen, does?</p><p>He took Thomas by the hand and led him out of the hall and through the moonlit grounds. He could barely wrap his head around everything. How long had Thomas known for? Was this the reason he was so opposed to the idea of soulmates?</p><p>“Why did you come back?” Alexander asked abruptly, the thought suddenly breaking it’s way through his stuttering brain as he pushed open the door of Thomas’ room, letting go of his hand so he could switch on the light. He moved into the room to pull the blinds down, letting them rest an inch or so above Nina’s bowl.</p><p>“Don’t you have to be with your family? Term doesn’t start back until next week.”</p><p>Thomas was still standing a little helplessly in the doorway where Alexander had left him. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said blankly. “You were here.”</p><p>Alexander blinked at him. “Oh.” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. Then, when Thomas made no move to do anything, “well. Come on.”</p><p>He took Thomas’ hand again and pushed him gently into the bathroom. Thomas looked at him, perplexed as he opened the cabinet above the sink and silently handed Thomas his toothbrush.</p><p>“You know,” he shrugged, “um, hygiene?”</p><p>“Right.” The corners of Thomas’ mouth twitched.</p><p>Alexander hopped up to sit on the edge of the sink to wait and Thomas bent down, pushing Alexander’s feet away from the cupboards so he could root through them, before straightening clutching a second toothbrush. He held it out.</p><p>Alexander stared at it, then up at him. “Huh?”</p><p>“What?” Thomas shot him the smallest of smiles. Alexander clung to it. “Above hygiene are you?”</p><p>“No,” Alexander bristled indignantly, “but I’m not <i>that</i> poor. I can afford my own you know. I’ll do it afterwards.”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas’ smile dropped a fraction. “I just…I mean…” he broke off.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I -” he clenched his jaw, his hand gripping the edge of the sink. “Can …can you stay?”</p><p>“Please?” he added quietly, as Alexander opened his mouth, throat dry. “I don’t,” he looked down, his shoulders slumping a little. “I don’t really want to be on my own.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander said hurriedly, trying to make up for his hesitation; “of course.”</p><p>Thomas looked up at him, relief passing briefly through his eyes and Alexander hated that Thomas would ever think that he might have refused. He slid down to the floor. “I’ll just go and change, and then I’ll be back.”</p><p>Thomas shrugged, starting to brush his teeth, leaning against the sink. Suddenly, despite the situation, there was a distinct domesticity about his stance. Alexander sent up a silent prayer, thanking God or Zeus or whoever was up there that Thomas had offered him a spare toothbrush, rather than his own. He had no idea what he would’ve said to that. </p><p>“You can borrow mine.” Thomas’ voice was muffled slightly by the toothpaste.</p><p>Alexander blanched. He’d already borrowed Thomas’ clothes once before and it was not something he wanted to repeat. There was only so much he could handle. Or how much coconut he could smell before he combusted.</p><p>“No,” he said quickly, watching Thomas lean over the sink to rinse out his mouth, backing towards the door as though it would protect him. “No, no it’s okay, I won’t be a minute.”</p><p>“Wait!” Thomas raised his head, catching his eye in the mirror, his expression cut at the corners by vulnerability. Alexander mentally slapped himself for being so selfish. “Don’t leave. Please.”</p><p>“Sure.” He stopped backing away. “Sure, sorry. I’m staying.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Thomas held out the toothbrush again. “Hygiene?” He smiled a little.</p><p>“Right,” Alexander agreed, a little thickly.</p><p>Thomas nodded, apparently satisfied with the knowledge that Alexander wasn’t going anywhere. “I’ll get you something to wear.”</p><p>Alexander watched him disappear back into the room, brushed his teeth quickly and followed him. He found Thomas standing dejectedly by his opened wardrobe; unpacked case still inside. A t-shirt was hanging loosely in his hand.</p><p>Alexander tapped his shoulder, and he jumped slightly, before holding out the shirt. Alexander shrugged off his jumper and sweatshirt, pulling Thomas’ shirt over his head in one quick movement. <i>It’s just coconut,</i> he told himself as the smell washed over him; sweet and comforting. <i>Nothing to get hung up on.</i> The shirt was clearly an old one, the material worn thin around the shoulders. He watched Thomas kick off his shoes and drag the blanket onto the bed from where it had been piled by the wall.</p><p>“You’re not changing?”</p><p>“No.” Thomas didn’t look at him. “I can’t wear short sleeves.”</p><p>Alexander nodded. He’d never actually heard Thomas mention it, but it couldn’t be a coincidence. Who wore long sleeves during the summer unless they had a reason.</p><p>“I won’t,” he hesitated, climbing onto the bed, “you know. Look at them. Your tattoos, I mean. If that’s what you’re worried about.”</p><p>Thomas shook his head.</p><p>“Okay.” He hadn’t really expected it would change anything, and scooted down under the covers. Thomas turned on his side to look at him, and they were silent for a while, facing each other.</p><p>“Thanks for staying.” Thomas said softly. He pushed his arm out of the sheets and offered his palm. Alexander stared at it for a beat before realising that Thomas wanted him to take his hand.</p><p>“Wait,” he reached over to switch off the light before groping in the dark for Thomas’ fingers, and gave them a squeeze. The moon was full tonight, and shone through the gaps blinds. In the half darkness, Alexander watched Thomas’ eyes droop, slowly, then, a while later, his chest rise and fall as he huffed out soft, even breaths.</p><p>He closed his eyes, thinking of the hollowness in Thomas’ expression, thinking of the girl in the photo above Thomas’ desk, laughing and happy and how she would never be again, thinking of how <i>unfair</i> it all was, and, finally, thinking of nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p> <br/>Alexander woke slowly, face pressed into the mattress, reality dripping into his consciousness one alarming fact at a time. The bed smelled wrong. Not bad. Actually it was really good. But it definitely wasn’t his. Something heavy was draped over his back, trapping him there. And he was pressed, alarmingly hard for this time in the morning, into the mattress.</p><p>He shifted as he tried to pull his arm out from where it was pinned underneath a pillow. Beside him, Thomas groaned, and it was far too early for Alexander to even attempt to control himself.</p><p>His eyes shot open in horror and he whipped his head around, receiving a sharp stab of pain in his neck and found his nose pressed into Thomas’ hair, spread in a halo over the pillowcase. This didn’t help matters.</p><p>“What…?” he stuttered, his voice sounding strangely foreign. What the fuck? He was in Thomas Jefferson’s bed. <i>In his bed</i>, his brain repeated unhelpfully. He frowned, trying to remember, then it finally hit him. He let out a soft breath. It had been nicer not knowing.</p><p>“Hey.” He nudged Thomas’ shoulder. “You awake?”</p><p>Thomas grunted and, in spite of himself, Alexander bit back a grin. Trust Thomas not to be a morning person.</p><p>“I’m going to get coffee,” he said, trying to wriggle out from under Thomas’ arm. He succeeded, after a minute, and Thomas mumbled something indistinct into the pillow. Alexander ignored him, padding softly out of the room in his boxers and Thomas’ shirt.</p><p>Admittedly, this hadn’t really been the best idea; even though the majority of students went home for break, a few stayed on campus, and the hall held a smattering of sleepy, half awake students. To be fair, Alexander had once rocked up to class wearing something similar and no one had batted an eyelid. University was university, after all.</p><p> </p><p>Thomas was more awake when he returned, armed with coffee mugs and more dignity than he had woken up with.  </p><p>Alexander gave him a small smile as he passed him a cup. “<i>Buenas dias, mi alma,</i>” he said without thinking, then balked, suddenly fervently grateful for the fact that Thomas didn’t know any Spanish.</p><p>Thomas looked a little better in the softer light of the morning, the dark shadows that had been under his eyes had lessened slightly, although there was still something about him that seemed a little worn out, a little resigned. A little broken.</p><p>Alexander climbed up on the bed and sat down cross-legged facing him. “Do you want to tell me what’s been going on?” he asked tentatively, after a few minutes had passed.</p><p>“You don’t have to!” he added quickly, when Thomas’ shoulders seemed to sag again into a resigned hunch, “talk to me, if you don’t want. But I’m here anyway.”</p><p>Thomas shook his head, staring over Alexander’s shoulder at the photograph above his desk and was quiet for a moment. “I can’t even…I don’t.” He closed his eyes. “She was my favourite sister. The one I was closest to, growing up,” Thomas opened his eyes and looked at him. “Like I do have other siblings, but, I don’t know, it was always me and her, see? Us against the world.” He gave a small, sad smile.</p><p>Alexander sat mutely, regretting he had asked. Any minute now he was going to lose it and tears would splash down his face and that would be utterly inappropriate, not when Thomas was somehow so composed.</p><p>“She met her soulmate when I was in France,” Thomas continued, now gazing across at Nina, though Alexander wasn’t sure if he could actually see her. Alexander thought he was probably miles away, in France, opening a letter that had travelled halfway around the world only to hurt him. “When I came back for the summer all her tattoos were coloured, and she was broken. She never even told me what happened.”</p><p>Alexander could see it, see Thomas holding the girl in the photograph like he had held his own mother.</p><p>“How could he do that?” Thomas shook his head. “They were soulmates. The other half of your soul, as the poets say.” Again, that small, rueful smile. Alexander had never seen anything so heart wrenching. </p><p>“And he told her no. How? How cruel would someone have to be to do that.”</p><p>Alexander shook his head, his mind unhelpfully silent. What could he tell him? There was nothing, really. Nothing that would help. He knew what everyone would think. Soulmate deaths weren’t uncommon, in a twisted way, everyone was used to them. So, what? <i>C’est la vie?</i> That’s life? Surely endings aren’t meant to cut this deep. How many goodbyes do we have to say before we listen to our own?</p><p>“Anyway. You know what happens. You can’t survive if your soulmate rejects you. That’s that.” Thomas sighed. “I think it was the fact that it dragged on and on, that was the worst thing, you know? Like we were all sort of waiting for it. Every term I’d say goodbye and think, ‘what if this is the last time I ever get to see her?’ And she had to stop doing all the things she loved. Became this shell, really. I don’t even know if she would have remembered me if I <i>had</i> been there to say goodbye.”</p><p>“Is that why they brought you out of the exam?” Alexander asked, when he had found his voice. “Because it had happened.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas was silent for a moment. “And I didn’t really feel it then. My brain sort of processed one fact at a time. Like the professor told me and I sort of went, right, okay, so I have to get home. I even think I thanked him for telling me.” He grimaced. “And then for the next few days after that it was all organising everything. Because, we’re, fuck,” he ran a hand over his face, his eyebrows knitting together, “we’re one of those fucking families. In the social circles, in the political schemes, the business world. A small, quiet funeral doesn’t exist for people like us – even though Jane hated all that. The politics.” He spat out the word vehemently, glowering and resentful. Alexander didn’t blame him. </p><p>“And everyone spent the whole time fucking arguing. Every room you walked into there would be another couple yelling about these flowers or those flowers, I’m saying the eulogy not you, or mum would be going on about how it was inappropriate to have anyone other than family at the viewing, or, I don’t know.” He tipped his head back against the frame of the bed.</p><p>“And then of course there’s the religion.”</p><p>“Are you religious?”</p><p>“I’m not.” Thomas shook his head. “But it’s a customary thing, you know. All this stuff that’s out of our control. Shouldn’t it be about what Jane would have wanted, rather than what everyone who barely knew her thinks is appropriate?”</p><p>He was quiet for a minute, then; “It’s going to be fucking awful.”</p><p>“When is it?”</p><p>“The day after tomorrow.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“But even with all that, I felt kind of... grateful. It meant I didn’t have to think, you know? And then yesterday we had the viewing, and I was outside, talking to everyone – because apparently you have to fucking welcome people to view the dead body of your own sister, and I didn’t think what…” he screwed up his face at the memory, “what it would be like. I just walked in and there she was. And suddenly it was real, like a thousand people can tell you she’s dead, and you can know, logically, that she is, but you don’t really <i>know</i>. And then, suddenly, just like that, all at once, I did.”</p><p>Alexander knew what he meant. It was amazing, how the mind could push away a reality in order to protect itself. Our tendency for self-preservation. </p><p>“What did you do?”</p><p>“I walked to the nearest train station. Mum and everyone else were still in there. And I came here.”</p><p>Alexander tried to process the fact that he was the one that Thomas had wanted to see, and couldn’t. Thomas had wanted <i>him</i>.</p><p>He nodded, as though that made perfect sense and didn’t tip his confidence out of his head. He swallowed. “Do you have to go back?”</p><p>Thomas gave a quick jerk of his head. “Yeah.” He took a breath, then; “you know,” he said suddenly, looking up at Alexander, “that was the first time I’ve slept all week.”</p><p>“Huh?” He frowned, considering. “Actually, I’m usually a terrible sleeper, and I don’t think I woke up once. Kind of strange.”</p><p>“Not really.” Thomas was looking at him.</p><p>“Isn’t it?” He shrugged. “Well, anyway, how will you get back?”</p><p>“The train. It’s too far for someone to come and pick me up. And I don’t want to bother mum with it, she’s got enough to organise.” He looked down. “Also I didn’t exactly tell her I was leaving.”</p><p>“Oh. It’ll be fine, she’ll understand.” The station was a twenty-minute walk from the campus. “When’s the train? I’ll walk you to the station.”</p><p>“Actually, I…” Thomas took a breath. “I wanted to ask. Would you, I mean, can I ask a favour?” The look Thomas shot him was hesitant, almost furtive.</p><p>“Of course.” Anything. Anything in the world.</p><p>“Will you come home with me?” His eyes were pleading. “Come to the funeral?”</p><p>Of all the things he thought Thomas might ask he had never expected that. “I..” he stuttered, “I mean, sure. You want me there? I won’t be in the way? I don’t think I’ll be able to do anything.”</p><p>“You don’t need to do anything.” Thomas clenched his fist, fingers gripping the fabric of the sheet. “I just, fuck, Alex. I just need you there. Please.”</p><p>Alexander stared at him. Their volatility. They clashed and burned and shattered, and crawled through the pieces back to each other. He nodded. He would never have considered giving any other answer. “Of course. I’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><p>He made Thomas eat something before they left; they sat in the hall until midday, when the train was due, and talked of other things. Non-consequential things; this and that, everything and nothing, and Thomas laughed and smiled and threw things back at him like he usually did, but his smile was quicker to fade, his wit lacked its usual bite. Alexander found himself watching him the same way he used to watch his mother; with an unshakable anxiousness, as though he was waiting for something. What, he didn’t know. But a watched pot never boils, and Thomas never broke. Sometimes, however, people don’t die from bullet wounds, they bleed out slowly, gradually, from a thousand tiny cuts.</p><p>Thomas waited while he packed a small bag, shaking his head when Alexander fretted that, yet again, he had nothing to wear. A wardrobe of dearly loved but old, slightly worn clothes in every colour but black.</p><p>“You can borrow mine,” he said, as though he couldn’t understand why Alexander didn’t automatically consider that as an option. It was starting to become a regular habit, this borrowing of clothes. Alexander had conveniently forgotten to give Thomas back the t-shirt he had leant him to sleep in, stuffing it away in his bag alongside his green cardigan, and the book of his mamá’s favourite poetry.</p><p>He forced Thomas to change out of the clothes, the ones he was still wearing from yesterday, and they were halfway down the hall when he gasped.</p><p>“Nina!”</p><p>“Huh?” Thomas looked at him dubiously.</p><p>“Nina.” How could he have forgotten her? “Who will feed her?”</p><p>Thomas smiled. “She’ll be okay. We’re not going to be that long. She’s a fish. You fed her yesterday, right?”</p><p>“Of course,” Alexander said indignantly. “I wouldn’t forget that.”</p><p>“Well then.”</p><p>“But…but who will talk to her?”</p><p>Thomas laughed, and Alexander frowned at him. “I’m serious.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Thomas looked like he was fighting to keep the smile off his face. “We’ll talk to her when we get back. You can apologise for leaving her and beg her forgiveness.”</p><p>“Fine,” Alexander conceded grudgingly, “though I don’t like your attitude.”</p><p> </p><p>They walked in comfortable silence to the station, and Thomas fell asleep again on the train, his head resting in Alexander’s lap, and he kept still, trying not to wake him. He watched the country fly past as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky; the same sun that had glowed over his little island he still, even after all this time, called home, over Thomas in France, learning to think and hope and live; over Jane’s bed, empty and alone in the sprawling Virginian countryside; the same sun that would rise again tomorrow, and the next day, and all the days after that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is from "The Valley Nis" by Edgar Allen Poe. <br/>quotes in this; "he [was] half my soul, as the poets say" - Madeline Miller and "that's life; trust and you're betrayed" - Roger Zelazny</p><p>I hope this was okay. As always, if you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment - you all know what they mean to me 💛</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. let July be July</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a confession under the guise of a Spanish composer, the start of the world and an argumentative Priest</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so originally this chapter wasn't even meant to be included, and the funeral was just going to be condensed into a sentence - but I've just been to one and this was super cathartic to write for some reason and it's also double the normal chapter length so I don't know what happened there - so this is all slightly irrelevant but anyway </p><p>also - someone left a comment last chapter and it made me re-think my whole au and my head's been reeling ever since</p><p>p.s formatting is being an absolute bitch and I really don't have the patience to fix it - sorry you're just going to have to deal with incorrect paragraph breaks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a long way from New Jersey to Virginia, and it was dark and nearing midnight when they finally arrived at the empty platform. They walked to Thomas’ house, after a heated debate over whether or not to call for a car. Alexander won, though he suspected this was less to do with his argument, and more because Thomas was worried about waking his mum.</p><p>The gates of the Jeffersons’ estate were large; elaborate gothic imitation patterns welded into the wrought iron, lit by the soft glow of a single lamp hanging from a tree above them. Alexander thought; <i>Northanger Abbey</i>, even though this was America, not England, and he doubted Thomas was harbouring any ghosts. Thomas caught him staring, and told him, dismissively, like it was barely even worth mentioning, that they were custom made in France. If he had come here in any other circumstance Alexander would have rolled his eyes. </p><p>There was a soft gravel path leading up to the house, which stood vast and slightly cold; only a shadow in the moonlight. Alexander had the distinct impression he was surrounded by a vast expanse of empty space. Thomas led him around the side of the house to a section separated by a low fence. Alexander was still squinting around, trying to make out vague shapes in the darkness rather than watch where he was going, and so crashed into it.</p><p>Thomas snorted. “Clumsy bastard. Also, this is a vege patch so try not to step on anything.”</p><p>“You have a garden?” Alexander asked, impressed, picking his way gingerly along a narrow stone path.</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas was a little way ahead of him, fiddling with a small door. There was a tiny panel of stained glass above it, and patches of light filtered through from within. “We have such a good cook. Majorie. You’ll love her.”</p><p>“You have a cook,” Alexander echoed. Of course they had a cook.</p><p>Thomas got the door open, and a small, homely kitchen came into view, pots and pans stacked up neatly in cupboards. Alexander had a brief view of a string of garlic hanging from the ceiling, warm, terracotta coloured tiles covering the floor and a basket of large granny smiths when there was soft gasp and a woman was rising out of a chair at a long wooden bench in the centre of the room, stepping forward and pulling Thomas towards her.</p><p>Thomas leant down a little to kiss both her cheeks. “Hi, mum.”</p><p>“Where did you go?”</p><p>“Back to the campus.” Alexander watched him swallow. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Mrs Jefferson looked at him for a moment. She was still formally dressed despite the time of night, her hair pulled back neatly at the base of her neck, and a heavy sapphire settled between her collarbones. But for all her poise, she had the same worn, tired look that Thomas carried, her cheeks a little pinched and her eyes shadowed - as though she hadn’t slept for days.</p><p>“That’s alright.” She gave Thomas a small nod, and something imperceptible seemed to pass between them. Alexander felt a sharp yearning for his own mother flare through him. “You’re back now.” Mrs Jefferson turned to Alexander with a questioning smile and he started nervously.</p><p>“This is Alexander,” Thomas said, with a quick glance at him.</p><p>He stepped forward. What do you say to someone who’s just lost a daughter?</p><p>“Alexander.” She smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand.</p><p>“It’s so good to meet you, Mrs Jefferson,” Alexander hesitated a moment, “I…I hope I’m not intruding.”</p><p>“Call me Jean,” she told him, “and no. Not in the slightest. Thank you for coming back with Thomas.” She turned around to where Thomas was being fussed over by an older, matronly woman wearing an apron and a wrinkled smile. “Now I know you’re back safely I think I’ll go up to bed. I trust you’ll get Alexander sorted, Pet?”</p><p>“Sure,” Thomas smiled at her. “Night, mum.”</p><p>The woman, presumably Marjorie, left Thomas’ side to follow Jean out of the kitchen, giving Alexander a wink as she passed him. Alexander watched her close the door quietly, then turned around to find Thomas at the bench, rooting through a basket.</p><p>“What are you looking for?”</p><p>“Bread.” He pulled out a cloth-covered loaf with a satisfied smirk then began opening cupboards.</p><p>“Don’t you know your way around your own kitchen?”</p><p>“Piss off. I haven’t lived here properly for years. Oh! Here.” Thomas brought a knife, the bread and a jar of jam over to the table. “This stuff.” He waved the jar, “I lay awake thinking about this. So good.”</p><p> </p><p>It was good. They ate their way through a third of the loaf in warm silence. Alexander could tell that Thomas was comfortable here, despite, as he put it, barely being around. But the obvious abundance, the casual displays of wealth that was in the elegant French crockery in a glass cabinet, in the sugar packets stacked by the stove, in the Spanish tiles that lined the edge of the sink; Alexander couldn’t help but be reminded of the starkness of his own kitchen. Empty, really, but for the flour tin, and his mother, dancing around the table. He wondered if Thomas knew how lucky he was. </p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, Thomas took him through dimly lit corridors and up a landing. </p><p>“You can sleep here,” Thomas pushed open the door to a bedroom, already lit by the golden glow of a lamp on a table by the bed. “There’s a bathroom and towels and whatever,” he gestured vaguely, “you know…”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander nodded, dropping his bag by the wall. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“My room’s down the hall.” Thomas stood watching him, almost nervously.</p><p>“Okay,” he said slowly, wondering what Thomas was waiting for. “Will you be alright?”</p><p>“Uh,” Thomas swallowed, “yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He gave a tight smile. “Thanks again, you know... for coming.”</p><p>“Stop saying thanks -” Alexander was starting to hate the fact that Thomas felt he had to thank him. As if he would have said no. “Do we have to be up at any particular time?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. I might have to help mum with everything. I’ll find you.”</p><p>“Okay.” Alexander gave him a small smile, wishing he knew what Thomas was thinking.</p><p>“Well. Night.” Alexander watched him take a deep breath before turning quickly and walking out of the room, shutting the door and leaving Alexander alone. </p><p> </p><p>He was too nervous to sleep, the room strange and foreign, and his brain was accustomed to being continually crammed with information well into the early hours of the morning, so he was still up when the door opened quietly, lying on the bed reading his poetry book.  </p><p>He looked up. Thomas was standing in the doorway looking soft and warm, wearing thin cotton pyjama pants and a long sleeved top that was slightly too big for him. Alexander felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Um…what are you reading?”</p><p>Alexander had the distinct impression Thomas was stalling the actual reason he had come in. He held up the cover. “Uh, it was my mamá’s favourite.”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas looked down, toeing the curling edge of the Persian rug. Alexander waited but, when he didn’t say anything else;</p><p>“Did you need something?”</p><p>“Uh,” there was a faint blush on his cheeks and he wasn’t so dark that it didn’t show, even in the dimly lit room, betraying the fact that he was clearly embarrassed - Thomas, who didn’t <i>get</i> embarrassed, who’s confidence always seemed to be obvious and certain even before he opened his mouth - and it was so endearing Alexander had to cover his face with the book so that Thomas wouldn’t notice his <i>own</i> blush, because he had never seen Thomas looking so dishevelled and his brain wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the image. </p><p>Thomas looked at the door as though willing himself to walk back out of it, and, on a whim; “I can’t sleep,” he blurted, after seeming to wrestle with himself for a minute, “so I was wondering, I mean, would it be okay if, well, if I slept with you? Not like,” he added, his eyes going wide and the blush darkening, “not like sleep <i>with</i> you, just, you know, sleep with you, like in the same bed -”</p><p>Alexander bit his lip to stop himself smiling, watching as Thomas screwed his face up in embarrassment; “actually, you know what, it’s okay. Forget it. Right, yeah, I’ll just... go.” Thomas turned quickly and Alexander shook his head, smiling in spite of himself now, because, god he was such an idiot.</p><p>“For fucks sake -” Thomas turned round to glare at him – “stay, <i>el idiota.</i> You don’t have to ask, you know.”</p><p>Thomas’ expression was soft and hesitant. “You don’t mind?”</p><p>“No,” he said, shrugging as though his heart wasn’t pattering nervously in his chest, as though he hadn’t been half hoping Thomas would come back; “I don’t mind.” </p><p> </p><p>He woke abruptly the next morning to the sharp click of heels against wooden floorboards, approaching quickly down the hall. He had time to register three things before the door was flung, unceremoniously open and Jean gave a soft gasp of surprise; Thomas was pressed tightly against him, had an arm wrapped around his waist and his face nuzzled into the back of Alexander’s neck, he could feel Thomas’ breaths coming out in soft little puffs against the sensitive skin behind his ear - and, somehow, the sheet had become tangled somewhere around their ankles. </p><p>“Oh!” Jean stopped short, her cheeks colouring. Alexander jerked himself up into a sitting position. Behind him, Thomas grumbled, his arm tugging slightly around Alexander’s middle. Alexander kicked him surreptitiously. “I do apologise, darling, I didn’t think -” she pulled herself upright, one hand on the door handle as she backed out, “completely my fault, I should have knocked -”</p><p>Alexander opened his mouth, his brain working furiously as he tried to compose a decent sentence, but Jean said quickly, “I just came up to tell you that breakfast is in the kitchen whenever you felt like it.”</p><p>She shut the door with a snap, and Alexander turned to give Thomas a cuff around the shoulder, his heart pounding. Thomas groaned, pushing his face further down into the pillow; “the fuck…?”</p><p>“Your mum,” Alexander hissed, “just walked in on us.”</p><p>Thomas cracked open an eye. “Huh?”</p><p>“You heard me.” He pushed himself off the bed, hurrying around to open the heavy linen curtains and yanking on them with a little more force than necessary, fingers trembling slightly.</p><p>“Alex, it’s fine.” Thomas rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes in a resigned sort of way, “it’s not like there was anything to see.”</p><p>He scoffed, incredulous, “you were practically on top of me.”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas lowered his hand, then swung his legs over the end of the bed and sat on the edge of it, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” Alexander felt himself flush. Thomas was watching him, his eyes soft and still a little sleepy, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. Alexander had a sudden desire to crawl into Thomas’ lap. He shook his head at the absurdity of it, turning away; “nothing happened, anyway.”</p><p>“Is that a proposition, Alexander?”</p><p>Thomas had fallen back against the bed, his shirt had ridden up just enough so that Alexander could see the smooth brown skin just above his hip, see the curve of his hipbone, and suddenly wanted to crawl into his lap for an entirely different reason. </p><p>“Fucking <i>no,</i>” he said abruptly, turning away so that Thomas wouldn’t see that he was now blushing in earnest, “you’re so full of yourself sometimes -” </p><p> </p><p>Jean was sitting at the table when they walked into the kitchen. She turned to them, smiling, as though nothing had happened - and Thomas bent to kiss her cheek before sitting down next to her.</p><p>“Hi, Pet, sleep well?” She asked Thomas, then, to Alexander’s surprise, reached out for him as well, pulling him down gently to press a kiss to his forehead.</p><p>Thomas took an apricot from the bowl in the middle of the table, broke it apart with his fingers and, as though without thinking, handed a half to Alexander before asking his mother; “so, what’s happening?”</p><p>“Well,” she sighed, a weariness that she appeared to have been holding at bay settling around her; “you probably want to avoid the dining room for the moment. I’ve just been trying to psych myself into going back in there.”</p><p>Thomas made a face.</p><p>“Anyway, they’ve been at it all morning, you know what they’re like. Peter -” Thomas’ scowl deepened “- came back yesterday while you were away, and so of course everything that we had planned has to be reconfigured according to his grand design. All of my children,” she said, turning to Alexander, “are delightfully stubborn. It makes motherhood an absolute breeze.”</p><p>Alexander grinned as Thomas muttered, stubbornly; “I’m <i>not.</i>”</p><p>Jean ignored him. “If you wanted to help with something, you could choose the photograph. I have to pick one to put by the coffin at the front of the church.”</p><p>“Sure,” Thomas nodded, as though they were having a casual conversation about what food to pick up from the supermarket. “Where are they?” </p><p>“I’ve laid the albums out in that room where we keep all your father’s old books.” She stood up. “And I know you’ll hate this, but sometime before dinner we have to work out the logistics of tomorrow. All of us,” she added pointedly, as Thomas opened his mouth.</p><p>She paused at the door, “Oh, also Anna’s coming back later today, will you watch her for me? I have to meet with the funeral director.”</p><p>Thomas nodded, and she gave him a grateful smile before leaving.</p><p> </p><p>“Who’s Anna?” Alexander asked as he made coffee. Thomas was sitting on the counter watching him.  </p><p>“My youngest sister,” Thomas smiled. “She’s seven. We sent her to her friend’s for the past week because we thought it would be better for her not to be around.”</p><p>Alexander nodded, frowning suddenly. “How many siblings do you have?” He’d never even thought about it before – always knew that Thomas had a large family but never really considered just <i>how</i> large.</p><p>“Uh, lots,” Thomas said with a slight shrug, “half of them I barely know – they were born while I was in France - or were in England or somewhere when <i>I</i> was born, and when I finished school I went straight to university.” He was quiet for a minute, then; “Jane was the one I was closest with.”</p><p>They finished their coffee, and then Thomas took him up to where Jean had left the photo albums – piles of them, heaped on a large, old fashioned desk and covering quite a lot of paperwork.</p><p>“Wow,” Alexander said, gazing around at the bookshelves. Then, again; <i>“wow.”</i></p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas shrugged indifferently, as though Alexander hadn’t just walked into something he’d spent many an afternoon daydreaming about, and sat down in the chair at the desk. There wasn’t another chair in the room, so Alexander pushed himself up onto the desk next to the albums and pulled on onto his lap.</p><p>“You’re so lucky,” he said, flicking idly through page after page, “I don’t have any photos.”</p><p>“None?” Thomas was pulling out a few at random - portraits, Alexander saw when he glanced over.</p><p>He shook his head, feeling a slight pang of regret.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Our house burnt down,” he put the album down, and picked up the small collection of photos Thomas had selected.</p><p>“What!” Thomas looked up at him, his hand hovering in the act of turning a page.</p><p>“Yeah?” he shrugged, “didn’t I tell you?”</p><p>“Uh, no!” Thomas was staring at him. “How?”</p><p>He thought of his father, pushing his way through the door one night, drunk and raging. Thought of his heavy footfalls as he stormed into the kitchen. He had thrown the flour tin on the floor – the round lid had rolled across the floorboards. There had been no money in it; his mamá was dead. <i>Never anger a violent man.</i></p><p>His father was Helios; god of the sun; and in his anger, he had burned.</p><p>Alexander shrugged. “I can’t remember.” And then, because Thomas was still watching him, and had opened his mouth as though to protest; “have you found one?”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas shut the album with a snap, and laid his head in his elbow on the desk. “I don’t know.” He was quiet for a minute then said; “that’s the last thing that anyone will see of her. How do I even start?”</p><p>Alexander looked at him for a minute. His favourite sister; bundled up and put on display for everyone to pretend to be sorry about.</p><p>“Come on,” he nudged Thomas’ shoulder gently, “let’s do it systematically.”</p><p>They spread out all the photographs in front of them: different versions of Jane, laughing and serious and caught off guard; as an infant, older, with a gap between her two front teeth, a few years later, clutching a bag that might’ve been Jean’s, again, perhaps sixteen, her gaze confident and bright and glinting with the same slight haughtiness that could sometimes be seen in Thomas’, and older still, maybe twenty, flushed and grinning and alive.</p><p>“Thomas!”</p><p>A girl that looked like the younger versions of Jane appeared in the doorway, and started to run towards them. Thomas allowed her to crawl into his lap, to tug on his curls, to plant little kisses on his cheeks.</p><p>He smiled, <i>“salut, mon petit chou. Vous ai-je manqué?”</i> Then, turning to Alexander; “I’m teaching her French,” he said, with a hint of pride.</p><p>
  <i>“Oui. Toujours. Aussi, que est-ce?”</i>
</p><p><i>“C’est Alex.”</i> Thomas smiled at her, softly, secretly. <i>“Il m’est très cher alors sois gentil avec lui.”</i></p><p>Anna turned to look up at him. “Do you speak French too?” she asked, by way of an introduction.</p><p>“Um, no,” he said, faltering slightly at her abruptness, “but I can speak Spanish.”</p><p>“Oh!” Her face lit up. “Me too. And Italian.”</p><p>“She learns them at school,” Thomas said, tucking a stray wisp of hair back into her braid. <i>“N’est-ce pas, Annie?”</i></p><p>“Wow,” Alexander wondered if the entire Jefferson family had some kind of Einstein genetics. <i>“Eres muy inteligente, no?”</i></p><p>She blushed, wriggling off Thomas; <i>“Maman te veut.”</i></p><p>Thomas frowned, as she caught his hand and started to drag him to the door.</p><p>“What?” Alexander asked, following them down the hall.</p><p>“She said mum wants me,” Thomas told him, as Anna stopped outside a door where Jean stood waiting, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor, her lips pursed. Raised, slightly muffled voices could be heard from inside. There was the distinct sound of a hand slapping a table.</p><p>“Well, it’s your lucky day,” she said, a little brusquely in response to Thomas’ raised eyebrow; “apparently they need us now, not later. Any longer and they’re going to scream down the whole bloody house.”</p><p>Thomas glowered at her as she pushed open the door.</p><p>“I’ll just -” Alexander reached out to catch his arm as he made to follow Jean - “wait out here.”</p><p>“Why?” Thomas seemed slightly unfocused. With the door opened, the voices filled the corridor. </p><p>“Well,” Alexander faltered, “that’s your family. You don’t need me in there as well.”</p><p>“Yes, I do,” Thomas said, turning without another word and leading Anna into the room.</p><p> </p><p>Alexander sat in the straight backed, velvet covered chair two spots down from Thomas at the long table in slightly stunned silence, watching his family argue. Thomas was making no effort to join in the yelling, staring at the table with his forehead pressed into his palm. Jean had her eyes closed. </p><p>Alexander wasn’t even sure they were all his siblings. They had smiled at him, warmly enough, when he had entered and Thomas had waved a hand in his direction, before turning back to each other as though there had been no interruption. First it was who got to say the prayer. Next, whether or not the Lewis’ should be allowed to come to the funeral. Alexander gathered they were another big family name. The general agreement was yes. “But Jane hated them,” a girl said, cutting through the general clamour, “and besides, they’re fucking bastards.”</p><p>Jean had opened her eyes at that point, fixing the girl with a piercing glare. “Mary!”</p><p>“Sorry, Annie,” Mary had muttered, throwing a quick glance at Anna, sitting quietly between Alexander and Thomas, her eyes wide and confused, but then, turning back to everyone else; “well, aren’t they?”</p><p>Now it was who got to hold a corner of the casket. Everyone wanted to, apparently. Jean was now looking out the window with a blank, distant look on her face. Alexander turned to his left and caught Anna’s eye, wrinkling up his nose. She gave him a small, reluctant smile, and, after a second, slid off her seat and climbed up onto his lap, her small hand gripping his finger as the voices grew louder and louder.</p><p>Alexander had stopped listening, was following Jean’s gaze, looking out over the soft, grassy fields in the distance and thinking how the Jeffersons lived in the centre of their own, private Eden and how they didn’t even know it, when Thomas stood, hands splayed on the table, leaning towards someone – his brother, maybe; spitting at him; “you’re carrying nothing – you fucking <i>introduced</i> them -”</p><p>Alexander frowned, wondering if Thomas was talking about Jane’s soulmate, when; “are you still not over that?” Thomas’ brother was glaring at him, fists clenched and shaking slightly, “she would have died anyway, you realise -”</p><p>“Peter, you <i>dick!</i>” Mary yelled, lunging across the table.</p><p>Thomas glared, frozen for a minute before grabbing the glass of water in front of him and hurling it at Peter. He staggered back as it collided with his shoulder with a garbled curse, and Jean stood in one fluid motion, offering her hand to Anna who slid off Alexander’s lap. No one noticed them leave.</p><p>Everyone seemed to have also forgotten he was there, or perhaps just didn’t care either way - and so he listened quietly as the afternoon inched by and the Jeffersons slowly yelled themselves into silence. One by one they left, until it was just Thomas, sitting there with his head in his hands again.</p><p>After a while, he raised his head, his eyes heavy and resigned. “Welcome to my family.”</p><p>Of all the things Alexander had been expecting, this hadn’t been one of them. “I didn’t know they were so, uh…” he trailed off with a wince.</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Thomas muttered darkly, not meeting his eye. “Why do you think I wanted to go to France?”</p><p>He’d never thought about it; in all their conversations, talk of their families was usually omitted. “So,” he changed the subject, “is everything sorted?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged; “kind of. Half of them don’t deserve to have a say in anything, but whatever.”</p><p>Alexander didn’t ask why. “Are you going to do something?” he asked instead, “you know, at the funeral?”</p><p>“I’m playing the piano.”</p><p>“Tchaikovsky?” The question earned him a smile.</p><p>“No.” Thomas shook his head, “Jane thought he was stuffy. I’ll play one of her pieces. She liked a lot of sad modern French stuff.”</p><p>“Isn’t that a bit counter productive,” Alexander pointed out, “to play sad pieces at a funeral?”</p><p>“Probably.” Thomas grinned a little, “but I don’t exist to make other people happy, you know.”</p><p>“God, what a charmer,” Alexander said, rolling his eyes.</p><p>Thomas glared at him, then; “help me choose one?”</p><p> </p><p>Alexander had seen Thomas play the piano once before. It was his first year of university; they had just finished their final exams and he was miserable and drunk, wandering slightly aimlessly through quiet, unused classrooms and had stumbled on the music hall. The next day he thought he might’ve imagined it.</p><p>Now, however, leaning against the wall by the window and watching Thomas play, he wasn’t so sure. He decided then and there that Thomas playing the piano had to be placed in the compartment of his brain he never ever thought about – right next to Thomas speaking French. Thomas’ fingers seemed to stretch over the keys, brushing them lightly, seamlessly. By the time he finished, Alexander was slightly breathless. He wondered, absently, if Thomas liked when he read poetry for the same reason. </p><p>Thomas was quiet for a moment.</p><p>“If you’re worried,” Alexander said, when he found his voice, “you shouldn’t be.”</p><p>“It’s not that. Do you remember,” he hesitated, “do you remember, I told you, ages ago – I hate public speaking?”</p><p>“Yeah?” Alexander frowned.</p><p>“Well, there will be tons of people there tomorrow,” Thomas stretched his fingers out effortlessly around a chord, expectant and a little sorrowful. It hung for a minute in the room, fading slowly.  Alexander had no idea what it was. “And I know they won’t be giving a fuck about who’s speaking and who’s playing, and it’s about Jane not us, but I still, you know. Have to do it.”</p><p>“So don’t play to them,” Alexander said, “play to her. Make it your goodbye. Imagine it’s just her listening, not everyone else.”</p><p>“My goodbye,” Thomas repeated.</p><p>“Yeah.” Alexander moved to sit down in the window seat. “Fuck the rest of us. Just play what you would want to say if you knew she was listening.”</p><p> </p><p>He stayed there with Thomas all afternoon, until the sun had set over the Jeffersons’ Eden, and more yelling could be heard, distantly, from down the hall. </p><p>He was thinking of his mamá.</p><p>Six years old, in bed, curled into her side in the middle of a thunderstorm. <i>“No tengas miedo, mi amor, no tienes nada que temer un cielo enojado,” – don’t be scared, my love, you have nothing to fear from an angry sky.</i></p><p>But, because she knew he was six and used to the fact that anger was usually swept through the door after his father; the fact that anger came with a stinging slap across the cheek, with broken plates and a reminder of his worthlessness; <i>“quieres que te lea?” – would you like me to read to you?</i><br/>
It was ‘Paradise Lost’ that she reached for, which he loved for the long, meandering sentences – because he had been on the crude side of melancholic even then; a pessimist before he could even write for himself – because he couldn’t understand all the concise poetry she was fond of; all short sentences and hidden meanings and a distinct <i>adultness</i> that was well above him.</p><p><i>“Pero, no lo te gusta” – but you don’t like it;</i> it was true, she didn’t.</p><p>A smile, her hand dragging through his hair, soothing away the sky outside that was growing angrier and angrier still; <i>“no, amor, pero lo haces.” – no, love, but you do.</i></p><p>There had been no arguing over <i>her</i> funeral, because there had been no one to argue with. His mamá, the priest and himself. Twelve years old and virtually alone. His father had no use for him now the flour tin was always empty, and now the only person who had ever really cared for him was gone as well.</p><p> </p><p>“This one’s by a Spanish composer.” </p><p>Thomas was watching him, fingers still moving along the keys as if he had played the song a hundred times before. “His name is Isaac Albéniz. Although,” he grinned a little, “I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.”</p><p>Alexander grinned back. He was, but that didn’t matter. “I like it,” he said, “it’s a bit chaotic.”</p><p>“Al <i>was</i> chaotic -” Alexander liked how Thomas called the composer by his first name, even abbreviated it, as though he had played the song enough times that it was familiar, like how his mamá had called William Blake ‘Will,’ or T. S. Eliot ‘Thomas.’ “- It has extreme dynamics in, because, you know, why not?” – Alexander nodded like he knew exactly what Thomas meant – “like in one bar it’s pianississimo and the next fortississimo as though it’s absolutely <i>nothing</i> – and then he goes and adds another, because to hell with it all obviously, and goes fortissississimo.”</p><p>“Right,” he said slowly, “you do realise that makes absolutely zero sense to me?”</p><p>“Sorry.” Thomas grinned, “it’s like you when you’re yelling about something.”</p><p>“What, perfectly eloquent?”</p><p>“No, fucking loud.”</p><p>“Oh,” he stifled a laugh, “I think I liked my answer better.”</p><p>He was silent as Thomas went back to watching his hands move along the keys, then asked; “I thought you said Jane liked sad French pieces, not chaotic Spanish stuff.”</p><p>“I’m not playing it for her,” Thomas shrugged, head still bent, “I’m playing it for you.” </p><p> </p><p>The day of the funeral came in the way inevitable things always do. Like how every year there is a winter. Like how July will come after June, and how flowers always die if you pick them. </p><p>Alexander slipped out of bed and went down to the kitchen to make Thomas a coffee. The grass outside the kitchen window was a little damp as though it had just rained, the clouds hanging over them with another inevitability.</p><p>He thought of his mamá, standing at the window of their own kitchen, looking out at the sky as it became heavy and promising. Alexander always hated the end of the dry season; <i>“no me gusta,”</i> he complained; <i>“quiero el sol de vuelta,”</i> and his mamá had smiled, shaken her head at his petulancy, laid a hand on his shoulder and said; <i>“que Julio sea Julio, mi pequeña tormenta” - let July be July, my little storm.</i> </p><p> </p><p>Jean was already sitting at the table wearing the same clothes she’d been in last night. Alexander made her a cup as well, but when he placed it front of her and she didn’t reach for him like she normally did, he reached for her instead, even though he hadn’t known her for all that long – because everyone needed to be held sometimes, and in that moment she was just a woman who had lost a daughter, and he was just a boy who had lost a mother. </p><p>He brought the second cup up to Thomas, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and staring out at the dullish sky – little bits of weak sunlight were filtering slowly though the clouds as though they didn’t really care either way whether today would be good or bad. They sat together and watched as the sky decided – and then dressed in silence, Thomas reaching for him almost absently to fix his tie for him. </p><p> </p><p>They left in three cars; Thomas looked back at him, eyes a little wide and panicking when he was shepherded into one with the rest of his siblings and Alexander shook his head a little, taking hold of Anna’s hand as she stood there, looking alone and a slightly lost in the middle of the drive.</p><p><i>“Quieres ir con migo?” – do you want to come with me?</i> He asked, and so she sat beside him in the plush backseat of the car, gripping his hand tightly while Thomas’ cousins gave him a rough rundown of all the families who would be there, arguing again when the Lewis’ were mentioned.</p><p>There was another squabble at the church.</p><p>“We can park here -” whoever was driving – Alexander had given up on names: the Jefferson family seemed to expand exponentially – pulled up in front of the church right outside the car Thomas had been in. “Right?  Because we’re family?”</p><p>“Darling, there’s an awful lot of family -”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s appropriate -”</p><p>“It isn’t -”</p><p>“Calm down, it’s fine -”</p><p>“It <i>isn’t</i> -”</p><p>Whether it was or wasn’t, they never decided - but left the car there regardless, and walked up to the front steps where everyone else was waiting. Jean was thanking the funeral director.</p><p>Thomas pushed his way through his sisters. “I have to stay out here and greet everyone,” he said, “could you take Annie in?”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander nodded – Anna seemed to have attached herself to his fingers anyway. “I’ll wait with her up the front?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, glancing at everyone milling around, the families getting out of cars, or those already making their way up the steps and into the church. It was a nice one, made of old, slightly weathered sandstone. </p><p>There was a tense abruptness to his movements, behind his gaze, in the firm, pressed line of his lips, and Alexander longed to touch him, to squeeze his hand, cup his cheek and say; “hey, they’re just people.” <i>The sky gets angry sometimes, and July will always be July, and Jane might be gone but you know she was here once, and you know you can still keep loving her.</i></p><p>Instead he said; “see you in a bit?”</p><p>He led Anna away, through the crowd and up the steps – Eliza and Angelica were huddled with their younger sister and parents and some other people Alexander didn’t recognise; they gave him a small smile as though they had expected to see him here. Anna stopped outside the large wooden doors by a table covered with neat stacks of memorial cards.</p><p>“You can take one, you know,” Alexander told her, so she did, clutching it in her other hand and they walked to the front of the church.</p><p>They sat on the edge of the first pew, and Anna opened the card.</p><p><i>“Mira,”</i> she said; <i>“estas era Jane cuando teniía siete años, como yo.” – this was Jane when she was seven, like me.</i></p><p><i>“Ella también se parece a ti”- she looks like you too,</i> Alexander said, because she did.</p><p>Anna smiled, closed the card, and looked up at the stain glass panels behind the alter instead.</p><p><i>“Tu crees</i>, in God?” – <i>do you believe in God</i> – she asked thoughtfully, seamlessly combining both languages without stumbling over the words, and Alexander was struck by her intellect for the umpteenth time. Seven years old and already considering whose hands her life was held in.</p><p><i>“Crees en Dios,”</i> Alexander told her, because you could never stop learning, before shrugging; “I don’t know.” Then, because he thought she deserved a better answer; “have you been taught about Greek mythology?”</p><p>“No?” For a second, she was a child again, eager for stories. “Tell me?”</p><p>Around them, the church slowly filled, and Anna sat next to him, drinking in everything he said, her head turned away from the sleek mahogany coffin on the small rise in front of them, covered with white and blue irises, and guarded by a stand holding a single photograph – the one Thomas had chosen yesterday. The one everyone would look at as they listened to prayers and said their own private goodbye.</p><p>“Well,” he said, “I like the Greek Gods because they’re kind of stupid.”</p><p>Anna grinned. “I didn’t think Gods could be stupid.”</p><p>“They can. They were always starting fights and arguing.”</p><p>“Like my family.”</p><p>“Ah,” he stifled a laugh – not quite the direction he had been going, but true nonetheless. “Maybe. Anyway, the Greeks believed that the world started with nothing, which they called Chaos. From that there were two gods; Uranus, who was the sky, and Gaia, who was the world. So then they had a bunch of kids, and one of them was Kronus – who killed his dad because he wanted more power. But, he was super scared that he would be killed in the same way and so he ate all his children -”</p><p>“Ate them!”</p><p>“Yes, he ate them.”</p><p>“Who’s eating who?”</p><p>“Kronus is eating his kids,” Alexander turned to Thomas as he sat down on the pew beside him.</p><p><i>“Alex me parle de la mythologie grecque,”</i> Anna said, leaning around him so she could see Thomas.</p><p>“I don’t know if cannibalism stories are entirely appropriate,” Thomas began, with a small hint of reproach, and Anna glared at him, the same haughtiness flickering in her gaze that Alexander was so used to seeing in Thomas’.</p><p>
  <i>“Je n’ai pas cinq ans, Tom.”</i>
</p><p>Thomas shook his head, smiling a little as Jean and the rest of his siblings filed in beside him. The Priest had walked up to the sanctuary, and, looking back, Alexander saw that the church was packed; with people standing in the alcoves next to the pews when there was no more room to sit down.</p><p>“I’ll just go back there somewhere,” he whispered to Thomas, suddenly feeling blatantly aware of the fact that the first few rows were taken up by family, of which he wasn’t included.</p><p>“What!” Thomas had been staring at the Priest, and now turned to him, eyes widening, “why can’t you stay here?”</p><p>“Because it’s tradition for family to sit at the front,” he said quietly, making to stand up, “we can’t break etiquette.”  </p><p>“Yes we can,” Thomas shrugged dismissively, “since when have you cared about etiquette? I want you here and I say screw it.”</p><p>“Thomas, don’t be -” Thomas reached out to grab his arm, fingers digging through the material of the suit jacket, and Alexander looked down at him incredulously; “I <i>can’t</i> there’s literally a rule in funeral customs -”</p><p>“Alex, <i>please,</i>” Thomas said, his voice a little strained, and it was both that and the Priest, finally turning around to face them all – gripping the chain holding a small pot of incense, swinging like a pendulum - which made Alexander sit back down, mouth tugging into a worried line, wondering if Jean would be angry, wondering if the rest of the Jeffersons, steeped in tradition and customs, would resent him for it, but then - the church silent around them now, the weight of loss hanging in the air amid the incense as the Priest swung the jar over the coffin, intoning a prayer with an even, colourless voice - Thomas leaned over, pressing his forehead into the dip of Alexander’s shoulder briefly, a little desperately, and whispered, low and insistent; “don’t you get it, Alex? I need you.”</p><p> </p><p>Alexander leant his cheek into Thomas’ hair quickly before he pulled away, told him; “you’ve got me,” because he did, and he sat there for the next forty-five minutes with Thomas gripping his left hand and Anna holding onto his right. </p><p> </p><p>Thomas didn’t cry, not through the hymn that everyone but Alexander seemed to know, not through the Priest as he asked for Jane to be accepted into a heaven that Alexander knew she hadn’t believed in, not as Jean sat at the other end of the pew, sobbing quietly with a soft, aching grief. Not as his siblings stood up one by one to say their prayers and their memoirs, or even when he sat at the sleek grand piano to say his own goodbye – though Alexander did, wiping his eyes hastily with the back of his hand before Thomas sat down again so he wouldn’t see.</p><p>Not when the priest pushed back the lid of the coffin and Jean stood, a little shakily, the rest of Thomas’ siblings following, stepping up to the sanctuary and stopping, one by one by the coffin before heading down the aisle and outside. </p><p>There was a slight shuffle as everyone else moved to get into line.</p><p>“Will you take Annie?” Thomas muttered in Alexander’s ear, and he nodded, leading Anna by the hand behind Thomas’ younger sister Mary. No one had lined up to see his mamá, just him with her poetry book and all the love in the world.</p><p>Stepping up to the coffin, he looked down, his heart spattering and cold in his chest, a dull numbness seeping through him. There she was, the girl in the photograph; the girl whose soulmate had shaken his head; <i>I don’t want you.</i></p><p>The lid had been lowered to her chest; she was wearing a light, flowery dress, a delicate scarf carefully covering her neck. Alexander wondered if it was concealing her tattoos.</p><p>“I can’t see,” Anna whispered, tugging on his hand. The Jeffersons were tall; endless legs and straight backs – but the top of Anna’s head only just came level with the edge of the coffin.</p><p>“Here,” Alexander offered automatically, lifting her. She was heavy, and he hadn’t thought it through, but she wrapped her legs easily around his waist, some of her weight pressing comfortably into his hip, her small arms wrapping around his neck. Alexander could feel her fingers weaving through the loose hairs that had come out of his bun, feel her heart, beating against his chest in a solid reminder; I’m here, here, here.</p><p>She was quiet for a minute, looking down with a small frown puckering her smooth forehead, then; “why does it look like she’s sleeping?”</p><p>“They put makeup on her,” Alexander explained softly,  “otherwise she would turn a funny colour.”<br/>
“Oh.” Then; “can I touch her?”</p><p>“If you want to,” he hesitated for a second then, “she might be a little cold.”</p><p>“I don’t mind,” Anna said, “where are her hands? I want to hold her hand.”</p><p>“You can’t hold her hands, <i>amor,<i>” Alexander said, his heart breaking a little, watching Anna’s lip quiver and gripping her tighter into him, “why don’t you talk to her instead?”&gt;</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
“Okay.” Anna thought for a minute. “She used to say goodnight to me in every language I was learning. Like this,” she pressed two fingers to her lips then touched them to Jane’s cheek; <i>“buona notte, angela mia.</i>”
</p><p>
She lifted her fingers to her lips again, then pressed them to Jane’s other cheek; <i>“bonne nuit, mon amour.</i>”
</p><p>
She touched her own lips a third time, and then, touching them gently to Jane’s forehead; <i>“buenas noches, mi vida.</i>”
</p><p>
 “And I would do this,” Anna brought her fingers back up to her own lips one last time before pressing them to Jane’s, “and say; goodnight, Ne.”

</p><p>
Alexander was twelve years old, kneeling in the dirt; <i>“adios, mamá.”</i>
</p><p>
“Okay, I’m done,” Anna told him, in that abrupt, no-nonsense way that children have, and so he took her down the aisle, away from Jane, and the Priest and the line of people waiting to say their own goodbyes.
</p><p>
He let her down as they got outside the doors, where the rest of Thomas’ family were standing, and Alexander stepped up to give them each a kiss or a handshake before waiting beside Jean with Anna. She tugged on his hand, and he bent down to hear her.
</p><p>
“Did you know?” she asked, urgently, as though the thought had just struck her, “that Jane was my sister?”
</p><p>
"She’s still your sister, you know,” Alexander told her, “she’ll always be your sister, yeah?”
</p><p>
“How?” Anna at him, wide eyes a little confused, “she’s not here.”
</p><p>
“That’s true,” he nodded, “but it’s day time right now, yeah, and can you see any stars in the sky?”
</p><p>
Anna shook her head, watching him.
</p><p>
“Right, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone, <i>lo hace</i>? They’re always there even if you can’t see them.”<br/>
The leaves would fall from the trees, and then grow again next spring; the snow would fall then melt. The moon would wax and wane; the stars would always be in the sky - his mamá would always be his mamá, and Jane would always be Anna’s sister. 
</p><p>
A few more families trickled out slowly, and then Thomas. Alexander watched him talk quietly to his brother, eyes dry but a little empty. Jean sat down heavily on a bench, and Anna let go of Alexander’s hand, went to her, and crawled into her lap.
</p><p>
Thomas didn’t cry now, either, as each person stepped up to him and he had to hear, again and again, over and over, how sorry everyone was for what he had lost. But then, running a hand through his hair, he glanced down the aisle as people continued to flow out the doors, and seemed to deflate a little.
</p><p>
He weaved his way carefully through his siblings and came to stand in front of Alexander. He was quiet for a second, and Alexander was about to open his mouth to say something, when Thomas stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Alexander’s waist and buried his face in the crook of his neck.
</p><p>
They stood like that, Alexander’s chin resting on Thomas’ shoulder, absently playing with the collar of his jacket, and watching as the church slowly emptied and everyone, except for the Jeffersons, piled back into their cars and drove off one by one. The wake was going to be held back at Thomas’ house, and Alexander knew everyone was heading there to wait for them.
</p><p>
Thomas disentangled himself to carry his corner of the coffin, and Anna came back to reclaim his hand. They stood, a little behind the crowd as Jane’s coffin was lowered, as the Priest finished his prayers, as everyone threw their own handful of soil into the hole, and then, when people had started wandering off again, as she was finally covered up.
</p><p>
And there you have it, Alexander thought, walking slowly back to the car with Anna. You live and then you die, and that’s that.
</p><p>-</p><p>
He had never been to a wake; and it wasn’t at all what he had been expecting. Maybe some quiet chatter, maybe some crying, some murmured comforts. Not merry laughter floating down the drive as they pulled up, or the Priest, glass in hand and conversing amiably with Mary at one of the round tables that had been set up in a large open hall that reminded Alexander of the room the Schuylers’ gala had been held in. 
</p><p>
Right near the door there was a small table laden with small glasses of amber liquid, which, Alexander assumed, was the source of the laughter. 
</p><p>
Anna tugged on his hand as he gazed around, slightly flummoxed. “Can we get food? I asked Marjorie to make cheese pies.”
</p><p>
“Sure,” he looked across and spotted a relatively empty table, snagged a glass, the contents of which tasted something like the gin Lafayette favoured so much, and he was halfway through his second glass and pie, listening to Anna chatter away, pointing at each of the tables and explaining who the families were, when the Priest pulled out the chair next to him and sat down without so much as a batted eyelid.
</p><p>
Alexander looked dubiously across at him, mouth full, wishing he hadn’t been drinking. How do you address a Priest?
</p><p>
“Alexander Hamilton,” he said slowly and thoughtfully, his voice low and gravelly, leaning back in his chair and looking across at Alexander. His skin was a little wrinkly, but he didn’t look a day over sixty, his eyes dark and calculating.
</p><p>
Alexander swallowed quickly, didn’t even think to ask how the Priest knew who he was, and squeaked; “yes?” then; “ah…sir? Reverend?”
</p><p>
The Priest smiled a little, selected a pie from the basket and chewed for a minute before; “where would you like to go most in the world, Alexander?”
</p><p>
“Uh,” he started, slightly thrown, “Spain? Maybe France?”
</p><p>
The Priest nodded. “Europe,” he said grandly, “the centre of civilisation, you know.” 
</p><p>
“Well, the world doesn’t just consist of Europe,” Alexander frowned slightly, “some would argue that China propagated civilisation in order for it to reach its peak <i>in</i> Europe, as you say.”
</p><p>
The Priest waved an airy hand; “Asia.” He dismissed an entire continent without a second thought. “There are far better places, Alexander, you’ll understand that one day.” 
</p><p>
Alexander fought to keep his expression polite, thinking there was no way he was going to stand up embarrass Jean, and said, as evenly as he could muster, “I’m sure.” 
</p><p>
The Priest either didn’t notice his tone, or didn’t care. “I hear you are studying to be a lawyer.”
</p><p>
Alexander gave him a stiff nod, reaching out a slightly unsteady hand for his glass. To hell with not drinking.
</p><p>
 “A good decision,” the Priest inclined his head a little, “we need more people like you to instil some order in this country - there are too many immigrants, running around like headless chickens -”
Alexander slammed his glass down abruptly, hot anger seething through him - “<i>I’m</i> an immigrant -”
</p><p>
Later, Jean hadn’t been angry, she had just laughed.
</p><p>-</p><p>
“I still can’t believe you argued with a Priest.” Eliza was lying on Alexander’s bed, her head propped up in her hand.
</p><p>
They were sitting on the floor of Alexander’s room, passing cigarettes and a bottle of whisky that was making Alexander’s head spin - back and forth between them. Thomas had drunk more than any of them and no one had said anything about it.
</p><p>
“I can’t believe you’re surprised,” Lafayette flicked his cigarette in the direction of a nineteenth century Victorian china plate they had been using as an ashtray and missed, slightly smoking ash falling onto the carpet. He rubbed it in, as though that would fix things, and said; “Alex will argue with <i>himself.</i>”
</p><p>
“That’s a <i>little</i> unfair,” Alexander protested, feeling marginally indignant, “he was shit-talking Asia, <i>and</i> immigrants. What was I supposed to do? Prejudiced bastard -”
</p><p>
“You’re going to be standing at the gates of heaven arguing with God -”
</p><p>
“Oh, please,” Thomas stretched himself out lazily on the carpet, head propped up against the edge of the bed, all long limbs and a slightly heavy gaze, a cigarette hanging between two fingers and his tie loose around his collar, and Alexander was having trouble dragging his eyes away – was thankful, for once, that Thomas kept every inch of himself covered, because his heart was already beating fast enough just <i>thinking</i> about the curve of Thomas’ neck under his shirt without actually <i>seeing</i> it; and this was why he should never drink around Thomas - he could remember what happened last time and the part of his brain that normally said, firm and dignified <i>no, no we aren’t going to think about that</i> whenever <i>that</i> particular memory floated to the surface – Thomas, all soft lips and little, almost desperate moans, and his hands everywhere, <i>everywhere,</i> gripping Alexander’s hips and tugging on his hair – and every so often Thomas would knock his foot slightly against Alexander’s knee and it was really just <i>not</i> helping, and, so, okay, maybe he <i>had</i> thought about what Angelica said, the soulmate idea, maybe he <i>was</i> thinking about it, couldn’t stop thinking about it, and even if they <i>weren’t</i> soulmates, which they wouldn’t be, maybe the fact that neither of them wanted the whole soulmate thing would count for something – people could still <i>date</i> even if they weren’t soulmates, except no, no, <i>no he couldn’t think of that</i> he <i>couldn’t</i> he had rules and he had <i>promised</i> himself, and besides he wouldn’t even remember thinking this tomorrow, and if he <i>did</i> remember then he could just pretend he didn’t and; “Alex is going straight to hell.”
</p><p>
“Hypocrite,” Alexander mumbled, glaring at him, and he didn’t like the way Thomas’ eyes darkened slightly and so turned away, reaching for Lafayette’s cigarette, even though he hated smoking because it reminded him of home, of the months after his mamá had died, living with his cousin and breakfasts and dinners of coffee or cheap wine and cigarettes because money was hard to come by and why waste it on food when you can get drunk instead with the added bonus of <i>not remembering,</i> but he took a drag anyway, because he knew Thomas was still watching him and he could barely stand it, so he held the smoke in his lungs and inhaled another lungful, sucked until he could feel the embers burning his fingers a little and there was barely anything left, because the burn was so sweet and, savagely, he liked the discomfort, and; “if I’m going to hell so are you.”
</p><p>
Lafayette was mumbling something like; <i>“Paris,”</i> and Eliza was laughing even as Thomas protested, and, for some inexplicable reason Alexander wanted to lean over, touch his cheek to make him look up, maybe brush a thumb over his lips to see if he could still feel the heat of the cigarette ash and say; ‘did you know that T. S. Eliot’s first name was Thomas?’ It felt important, all of a sudden, that he should know this. 
</p><p>
Alexander wondered if Thomas had drunk enough to push Jane to the back of his mind, because, sometimes, you don’t need to think about the people you’ve lost, you need to remember those you still have.
</p><p>
And although they are all laughing and drunk off both the whisky and the precarity of their youth, Alexander was feeling a little haunted by the fact that every time his gaze met Thomas’ he <i>wanted</i> in a way that he couldn’t, couldn’t because of one simple fact that Alexander had come to expect; every time he cared about someone – or <i>anything</i>, a little too much, a little too deeply; they were, in some way or another, taken from him.
</p><p>
 And he didn’t know much, in that moment, flicking the sole of Thomas’ foot with his fingers, making him squirm uncomfortably with a badly suppressed giggles, but he did know this; he really, really didn’t want to lose him.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is from a poem by Morgan Harper Nicholas.<br/>And "mi tormenta" as Alex's nickname is a nod to my absolute favourite author Chaosandgunpowder and their mob!verse, which I've re-read so many times it's almost embarrassing. </p><p>Also, historically, Thomas' mother was actually called Jane - but I thought it would get confusing so in this she's Jean.<br/>Can you tell I only just realised that T. S. Eliot's first name is Thomas and had a massive revelation? And if you felt like listening to the piece Thomas plays for Alex it's called; 'Iberia: Cuaderno I' </p><p>Anyway, as always if you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment - you know how much I love them &lt;3</p><p>p.s I had this exact conversation with a Priest, although unlike Alex I didn't argue just sat there with my eyes bugging slightly because ...what!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. whisper confessions of the empty night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a thank you, a heavy gaze, a fall, and an unspoken confession</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>an alternative title to this would be; Thomas drops hint after hint and Alex steamrollers past them all.</p><p>So - we're almost there. Almost. Or Alex is. I know I promised a super dramatic realisation and you'll get that in two more chapters. He's getting there slowly.<br/>This is the last softness for a while, because there's quite a bit (a lot) of angst coming up - so I hope you like this. Also, I'm struggling with how to write the next few chapters (honestly what's new) so there may be a little wait for the next part.</p><p>Just want to say a quick thank you to everyone who never fails to leave me a note and let me know what you think - all your praise and interest means so much to me and I still can't believe you continue reading this train-wreck of a fic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t a date. </p><p>
  <i>It wasn’t.</i>
</p><p>But, god, it felt like one, and sue him if he wasn’t half wishing it was. Which was why Alexander was now on his second whisky of the evening - feeling warm, slightly dizzy and a little daring, a little <i>outrageous</i>, and, to his detriment, something his sober conscience would have <i>never</i> allowed, a little careless. </p><p>What were <i>consequences</i>, really? Things he could worry about tomorrow, at any rate. </p><p> </p><p>That morning, when Thomas had asked, his voice a low, sleepy mumble in Alexander’s ear, because they now apparently slept together every night – although, of course, this was because Thomas needed comfort, and for no other reason at all - and even though they started each night with their heads on separate pillows, somehow Thomas always ended up on Alexander’s side; not that he <i>minded,</i> exactly, but it was all very confusing, especially now, why waking up to the familiar weight of Thomas’ arm around his waist was so <i>comforting,</i> why he was content to let his mind drift, lazily and without much direction, when he normally woke with an abrupt jolt - pulled cruelly out of dreams that usually filled his mind with scenes of <i>home,</i> of Pete - his cousin, his only <i>family</i> - swinging from the banisters, his mamá, cold in his arms, his father, with his violent temper he liked to channel through his fists, his harsh words; which normally left Alexander waking trembling and a little terrified before he remembered where he was - and it was confusing because he didn’t <i>feel</i> that with Thomas, he woke content and pleasantly sleepy, and if that wasn’t baffling in itself when Thomas had asked; <i>can I take you out tonight?</i> Alexander had opened his eyes so fast all the room around him had been blurred.</p><p>“Can you <i>what?</i>” His voice was scratchy from sleep and hollowed out slightly in shock.</p><p>“Take you out,” Thomas had repeated, rolling away from Alexander to stretch his arms languidly above his head. There was a sudden coldness on his back where Thomas had been and Alexander frowned. “Like, you know, as a thank you?”</p><p>“A thank you?</p><p>“Yeah. For being there.”</p><p>“How many times do I have to tell you?” he had turned around to face him, exasperated by the fact that Thomas still didn’t get it, “you don’t have to thank me.”</p><p>“I know that, but I’d like to. Please.” Thomas had looked down at him, his eyes a little puffy from sleep and still utterly disarming and Alexander hadn’t found the energy to process that fact quite this early in the morning so he’d simply closed his eyes again, because who wasn’t all for quick solutions? </p><p>“Let me take you somewhere?”</p><p>After a moment of silence, Thomas’ foot had nudged at his, and it was the fact that Alexander realised he could feel the muscles of Thomas’ calf shift against his own at the movement which dripped the understanding into his stuttering consciousness that <i>their legs were entwined</i>, and he’d been so caught up on that feeling - Thomas’ body hot and heavy and <i>real</i> against his own and how it took his entire sleepy concentration not to do something more than a little pathetic and <i>lean into it,</i> that he hadn’t put up much of a fight and so:</p><p>“Fine,” he’d mumbled, without opening his eyes, because arguing would mean he’d have to actually look at Thomas, and he wasn’t up for that at the moment. He didn’t know what it was, maybe it was sharing a bed and draping yourself over someone every night, or maybe it was the rawness of everything, the fact that they were all a little vulnerable, the way you always are when you’ve lost something that was keeping you whole - Alexander didn’t know, but lately he was finding it harder and harder to drag his eyes away from Thomas. There was one last thing that had still niggled at him, left over from his days of hating Thomas for all he was worth; his <i>wealth.</i> But now, seeing where Thomas lived, his family – although his house was as big and grand and the Jeffersons were obviously just as affluent as Alexander had imagined, he saw that he had been wrong. Thomas’ family were kind and hard working and, although they conversed through raised voices and poorly aimed insults, were clearly fond of each other nonetheless; were quick to laugh, despite the circumstances - and had welcomed him without a second thought.</p><p>It was making Alexander on edge. </p><p>Had he been wrong about <i>everything</i> the entire time? He kept wanting to ask Thomas; <i>why were you such a dick to me?</i> Because it clearly wasn’t for the reasons he had originally thought it had been for. Not a single member of the Jefferson family seemed to care at all where he had come from, that he clearly hadn’t grown up like they had in <i>any</i> respect, but instead asked him <i>where he was from</i> and <i>how he grew up</i> and <i>how had he arrived in America</i> with only genuine interest rather than the belittlement or contempt or <i>disdain</i> that he had originally expected from Thomas, and, as a kind of reflex, presumed he would get from everyone else. He was <i>used</i> to those types of reactions. He knew how to handle those reactions, had his defence already held behind his teeth before they even opened their mouths - but kindness? Acceptance? That made him jittery and restless and <i>confused,</i> and he hated it because he couldn’t understand <i>why.</i><br/>
So every time he opened his mouth he would hesitate, teetering on the spot for a moment with that awful feeling of uncertainty, of being <i>unsure,</i> and then close it again without asking Thomas anything, too afraid of starting an argument, of hearing something he didn’t want to. The past was in the past, after all. He should leave it that way.</p><p> </p><p>Wherever it was that he’d been expecting Thomas to take him, this wasn’t it. They’d slipped away just after dinner, which everyone ate in the kitchen despite having a significantly more extravagant dining hall upstairs. Marjorie ate with them, and someone was always over – tonight it had been some cousins who had travelled across the country for the funeral and so were staying there until they could get back home. Sarah, the youngest, for reasons unknown to Alexander, had taken a liking to him, and had sat contentedly on his lap playing with the frayed hem of his cardigan. Anna had sat on the opposite side of the table next to Thomas and another cousin who was about her age.</p><p>“Is it your favourite thing?” Sarah had asked him, tugging on his sleeve, her eyes impossibly wide as she blinked up at him.</p><p>“It is,” he had told her solemnly, “my most favourite.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because it was my mamá’s.”</p><p>“Why are you wearing it?”</p><p>He had smiled. “Because she gave it to me.”</p><p>“Oh.” Sarah thought about this for a minute, then; “why isn’t she here?”</p><p>“Now?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Because…” he had paused, “she’s uh, busy.”</p><p>“Busy,” Sarah had repeated slowly, before; “why?”</p><p>“Ah...she just is.”</p><p> Sarah had only looked at him silently, her forehead crinkled with a small frown. He’d smiled, then; “is she dead?”</p><p>Blunt honesty, he had decided then and there, was his favourite trait.</p><p>Children have a way with that sometimes, of knowing things adults have forgotten to look for - still hold a lingering innocence that allows them to notice things others tend to overlook; don’t understand that multifaceted nature of everything, don’t understand that not everything has a black and white answer - because right now all they know are concrete certainties; that people live and people die, there are people who are kind and people who aren’t - when someone is busy it’s not because they have a life of their own it’s because they’re not coming back.</p><p>“Yes. Yes, she is.”</p><p>“That’s okay,” Sarah had told him, “I think she still loves you.”</p><p>“You think so?”</p><p>“Yes.” She had been silent for a while, picking little bits of chicken off his plate with her fingers, before swivelling back around to face him with a sudden thought. “Was she pretty?”</p><p>“The prettiest,” he had winked, receiving a giggle in return; “but not as pretty as you.”</p><p>He had looked up to find Thomas watching him, a fondness to his expression that softened his features so he’d added, “or you,” regretting it a second later when Thomas flashed him a bright, almost childlike smile, then jerked his head towards the door.</p><p>Alexander had nodded, eased Sarah, complaining and reproachful, off his lap, had ducked around the other side of the table to say goodbye to Anna. Thomas was backing towards the door.</p><p>“We’ll be back later,” he’d told Jean, who nodded with a smile without breaking from her conversation, and turned her cheek towards him. Thomas had stepped forward, and then Alexander, when she held out her hand to him.</p><p> </p><p>“They like you,” Thomas had told him as they walked down the drive.</p><p>“It’s my subtle charm,” he said, then stumbled a little on the uneven stones.</p><p>“Of course,” Thomas snorted. “What else?” Then he smiled, softly, and, with a little hesitation; “I like that they like you.”</p><p>“I like that they like me,” Alexander fought back a smile, “and I like that you like that they like me.”</p><p>Thomas was silent for a moment, had kicked at a rock, sending it spinning off the road. “I like you.”</p><p>“That does seem to be the popular opinion of late,” Alexander grinned at him. “I like you, too.”</p><p>“Do you now?” Thomas glanced sideways at him, coy and slightly dangerous, “care to elaborate?”</p><p>“Care to get your head out your ass?” Alexander rolled his eyes, “do you get off on making people tell you how great you are?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged. “I don’t have to. People usually tell me of their own accord.”</p><p>“You’re an actual dick, you know that?”</p><p>Thomas had grinned. And then brought him here. </p><p>He’d lead the way through the little village to a small, slightly run down inn, had pulled Alexander through a door at the back that opened into a dimly lit, almost dingy bar – a tavern really; crammed full of people in squashed, mismatched armchairs and sofas placed around rickety wooden coffee tables. There was a makeshift spotlight - golden and harsh, shining on a table that was clearly meant to be a stage - there was a man standing on it playing a sprawling, sorrowful melody on a violin.</p><p>Later, Thomas told him it was a viola.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell is this place?” He’d asked, when Thomas had pushed him into a chair tucked away in the corner and come back with drinks, settling down in the seat next to him. It was quieter here, the music and the hum of talking and laughter and glasses clinking all blending together.</p><p>Thomas grinned. “My hideaway.”</p><p>“Holy fuck,” Alexander gaped, looking around. “This is incredible. Did you bring all your French girls back here to seduce them?”</p><p>Thomas snorted. “No. I’ve never brought someone here before. Anyway, French <i>boys</i> are much more fun. Or,” he kicked the table leg, “or Spanish boys.”</p><p>Alexander frowned. “I didn’t know you liked that.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Boys.” <i>Spanish boys.</i></p><p>“Oh. Well, yeah.” Thomas swallowed, the shadows on his throat shifting in the grungy oil lamplight. “Do you?”</p><p>Alexander shrugged. “Sure? I don’t mind.”</p><p>And then a boy, maybe a year or two younger, had climbed up onto the table and started reciting E. E. Cummings in with a lilting, West Coast resonance and Alexander had audibly gasped.</p><p>“I…He…” Alexander swallowed and tried again. “Poetry?”</p><p>Thomas was smiling at him. “Yeah. People pretty much get up there and do whatever. Mostly music and poetry. Sometimes books, occasionally they’ll dance.”<br/>
“So people just get up there and read out poetry.”</p><p>“Yeah. Some like to do original stuff.”</p><p>“Oh my god. If I die, bury me here.”</p><p>Thomas grinned. “Okay. Are you going to get up there?”</p><p>“What, on the table?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Hardly,” Alexander scoffed, “and do what?”</p><p>“Read a poem?”</p><p>“I think the fuck not. Besides I’d need a few more drinks for that.”</p><p>“I’ll get you more drinks.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Okay, I’ll make you a deal? I will if you will.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Alexander took a gulp of whisky because Thomas was sitting there like the devil himself, offering sinful, <i>terrible</i> whispered temptations, and he had never been particularly holy. He winced, swallowing painfully. “And what will you do? Pull a piano up there?”</p><p>Thomas laughed. “No. I’ll say <i>my</i> favourite poem.”</p><p>His heart was in his throat. “You have a favourite poem?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“It’s in French.”</p><p>“Ah. French.” Which meant Thomas would be speaking French. Which was why Alexander was on his second whisky, and was touching Thomas’ arm a lot more than was strictly necessary, because after a while, warm and relaxed, Thomas had rolled his shirt sleeves up, and although it was too dark for Alexander to actually see anything, there was a lot more skin on display that Thomas usually let slide, and his brain, a little out of his control, had decided to make the most of it.</p><p>Thomas was getting decidedly loose and giggly, and Alexander was feeling flirtatious and risky and didn’t particularly care. Thomas was watching the woman currently on the table, his foot jiggling a little to the beat of the soft Italian folk song she was singing.</p><p>“Hey.” Alexander nudged his foot against Thomas’ calf, and then, when he didn’t turn, cuffed him around the head with a little more force than he had intended. His arms seemed to be working of their own accord. “Can we make a pact?”</p><p>Thomas turned, his elbows on his knees.</p><p>“If neither of us find our soulmate, let’s live together. Like, grow old together. We can be each other’s surrogate soulmates.”</p><p>“You want,” Thomas paused, “you want to grow old with me?”</p><p>“Fuck yes.”</p><p>Thomas laughed. “If we don’t find our soulmates, neither of us will be growing old.”</p><p>“Yes we will.” Alexander shot him a grin. “We’ll defy fate.”</p><p>“Oh, we will?”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>Thomas was quiet, then, in a rush, as though he couldn’t quite stop himself; “would you rather,” he paused and took a deep breath. “Would you rather, even with, you know. You not wanting to find your soulmate. If someone knew they were, well, your soulmate, would you want them to tell you?”</p><p>Alexander laughed. “Trust me, if my soulmate knew they were my soulmate they wouldn’t want to be telling me. Death would be a sweet release.”</p><p>“I think you underestimate yourself.”</p><p>“I think I am very correct.”</p><p>“Okay, well, say they really liked you. Like, a lot. Would you want to know?”</p><p>Alexander stared at him, full lips, dark eyes and darker skin; his moonlight boy. Do you become different people at night? Perhaps, everyone lived two lives; one in the sun; exposed and open and perhaps a little stilted, and one after the sun had set; and everything came from somewhere a little deeper, everything was a little more intangible. Or maybe his chest was just burning from the whisky and stolen sips of Thomas’ gin, and not from if there was a difference between night and day at all; maybe it was only halfway through a bottle that people found different versions of themselves, and it had nothing to do with whether or not the moon was in the sky, or how much Thomas’ skin blended with the shadows. Alexander swallowed, frowning a little. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”</p><p>“No,” Thomas said hurriedly, “it’s hypothetical.” His tongue wrapped, snake-like, around the word. “But, hypothetically speaking, would you?”</p><p>“Hey.” Alexander smiled lazily. “You know I love you.”</p><p>He heard rather than saw Thomas suck in a sudden breath. </p><p>“Yeah! Of course I do. You’re like,” Alexander waved his hand haphazardly around, because everything that mattered was right here in this room and he could have stayed here forever, and so the whole world - <i>his</i> whole world was swept up in his gesture; “you’re like my greatest friend. Ever. You can tell me anything, you know.”</p><p>Thomas let out the breath in a shaky exhale. He closed his eyes. Alexander thought about brushing a finger over the soft skin of his eyelids, but then he opened them, irises dark and impossibly fathomless. Something passed over his face in a brief, piercing moment of pain.</p><p>Alexander leant forward with a frown.</p><p>Thomas shook his head with a small smile, that seemed, almost, a little heartbroken. “Nah, there’s nothing.” </p><p> </p><p>Later, Alexander nudged him again.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I want -” his limbs were pleasantly loose and he knew he shouldn’t be asking because it was <i>wrong</i> and he was sure there were consequences, but in that moment he couldn’t think of any, or maybe just didn’t want to - and the side of his mind that usually stayed constantly in the realm of doubt and hesitancy was only a quiet simmer, and he could very well ignore it if he wanted to - because Thomas was here, <i>right here</i> next to him, and every time Alexander looked over he could feel <i>something;</i> his heart beating a little wildly, stomach flipping slightly, feeling like when he had first stepped off the boat in America, giddy with his sheer dumb luck - he was standing on the soil of the <i>United States</i> - his land of dreams, and <i>this</i> was what he had been waiting for - here was somewhere he could be remembered; <i>that</i> feeling right there, as he had stood, gasping a little for air, hands a little shaky, face to face with a possibility he wanted to grasp tight with both hands and never let go of - and Thomas’ knee was pressed slightly against his own, and Alexander’s heart was aching with something - but that was impossible, because how can you want more of someone when they’re right there next to you - and he had been thinking about it for so long, and he couldn’t <i>stop</i> and he <i> so wanted to</i> - </p><p>“Can I see one of your tattoos?”</p><p>Thomas looked at him. “You want to see one?”</p><p>“Yes.” <i>More than anything.</i> </p><p>Perhaps it was the fact that Alexander knew that Thomas never showed anyone his tattoos, kept every single one covered and hidden, which made his heart beat in a soft nervous patter that he could feel <i>everywhere,</i> in his throat and fingers and the bottom of his stomach- when Thomas gave a small, tight nod, glancing at the table – where an old man, his beard white and wispy and almost luminous in the bright stage light was sitting on the edge of the table with a lyre – and seemed to consider for a minute before pulling down the throat of his turtleneck slightly, angling his head to the side so Alexander could see.</p><p>“It’s too dark, he muttered, heart thumping loud in his ears, squinting at the blurry blackness Thomas had bared for him. He leant over the back of his seat to the table behind them, the occupants of which had been smoking steadily all evening. He pointed to the lighter they had left on the table. “Can I borrow that?”</p><p>One of the men handed it to him with a nod, and he flicked on the flame, holding it up to Thomas’ skin. There, under the flickering light was the sun, rays undulating from it’s centre like a pulse. Alexander stared at it for a moment, then, briefly, because he never did and how could he <i>not</i> - the tilt of Thomas’ head, the gentle arch of his throat, the sharp edge of his jaw.</p><p>He let the flame die and placed the lighter back on the table behind them. Thomas let his turtleneck cover the sun again; like a cloud will cover the light on a rainy day.</p><p>“Thank you,” Alexander told him, because he knew Thomas had, for whatever reason, decided to trust him with something he didn’t with anyone else.</p><p>“That’s alright.” He offered a small smile.</p><p>“Why did you show me that one, specifically?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really understood it. Like some of my tattoos are really obvious, and I know exactly what my soulmate has lost.”</p><p>“How can you know that if you don’t know who your soulmate is?”</p><p>“Well, I meant I can take a guess,” Thomas corrected himself quickly, “it’ll be really specific, like a book.” He shot him a quick glance. “But, yeah, that one. I don’t know – how can someone lose the sun?”</p><p>“Well,” Alexander lifted a shoulder, considering, “it doesn’t necessarily have to be literal.”</p><p>“No.” Thomas was quiet for a minute, watching as though waiting for him to say something.</p><p>“I mean, I always liked the way the sun was in the morning, back home. It kind of, I don’t know. Glowed in a way that it doesn’t in America. It was more golden?” He shrugged. “Anyway, I noticed the difference when I first came, and for ages I would wake up and the light would be so strange, and for a few moments I wouldn’t remember that I was here, not still back home so it would always make me feel out of place. And I’d always feel a little homesick.”</p><p>“So, in a way, you lost the sunlight.”</p><p>“Yeah? I guess. But that’s just me. I don’t know what it means for your soulmate. It’s probably nothing like that.”</p><p>“No. No, right.” Thomas looked at him for a moment, then; “so, your turn.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Show me one of yours.”</p><p>“Hey, that’s unfair! You’ve already seen one of mine. Two actually,” he added remembering the one on his wrist.</p><p>“They don’t count, you don’t bother covering your wrist and you only told me about the other one, I never saw it.”</p><p>“Still,” Alexander mumbled, “you owe me one. Besides, I barely have any. I’ll show you another and you’ll have practically seen them all.”</p><p>“Really?” Thomas looked surprised. “You don’t have many?”</p><p>“Nope.” Even as he shrugged he felt the familiar pang of disappointment. “I always thought it was because my soulmate was really rich, or something. Came from a good background? Didn’t have cause to lose very much, I don’t know.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Thomas was frowning, his brows knitted together. “Anyway, show me.”</p><p>“Fine.” Alexander crossed his ankle over his knee, pushing up the leg of his trousers. Thomas reached behind for the lighter, before bending over the small outline of a tulip, curving delicately up his ankle. Reaching out, he traced a finger lightly over the stem, and Alexander suppressed a shiver despite the lingering warmth in his veins.</p><p>“You know,” Thomas said thoughtfully, still staring at the tulip, “I’ve only ever loved two people -”</p><p>“Only two?”</p><p>He nodded. “Only two. And one of them was when I was still in France, well, I mean, I was young and didn’t really know anything and she was beautiful and brave. So, yeah. I probably wouldn’t call it love now but then I didn’t know what else to call it.”</p><p>“What was her name?”</p><p>Thomas shrugged, with a small grin. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, her’s was the only tattoo I’ve kissed.”</p><p>“Did it turn to colour?”</p><p>“Yes, Alex,” Thomas said, deadpan, rolling his eyes a little, “that’s why mine are still black.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Alexander gave him a shove.</p><p>“Anyway.” Thomas was looking at him, “it was a tulip. Her tattoo. That I kissed, I mean.”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander imagined it; Thomas pressing his lips to the delicate petals, perhaps on her shoulder, or wrist. Imagined the disappointment that would have filled him when it remained black. Maybe the relief. Or maybe not. He wondered what it would feel like to have Thomas’ lips on his <i>own</i> shoulder, feel the light scraping of his teeth over his neck. </p><p>“So, who’s other one?”</p><p>“Which other one?”</p><p>“The other person who you’ve loved. You said there were two.”</p><p>“Oh,” Thomas ducked his head, “I can’t tell you.”</p><p>Alexander grinned. “Aw. You embarrassed?”</p><p>“No. Not embarrassed.” Thomas looked at him. “Just wish that, well, that I didn’t.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Thomas laughed humourlessly. “Because they don’t feel the same way and it’s fucking painful.”</p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>Don’t. Not didn’t. <i>Don’t.</i> Alexander had assumed that Thomas meant people in the past. He took another swallow of whisky, leaving a scraping, cruelly satisfactory bitterness in his mouth. Thomas loved someone. Suddenly, entirely uncalled for, the desire to throw the glass at the wall seemed quite a good idea.</p><p>Abigail? Maybe. But she certainly seemed to like him back. Maybe not as much as Thomas wanted her to.</p><p>“How do you know they don’t?”</p><p>Thomas wasn’t looking at him, glaring down at the dregs of alcohol in his glass with a dark glower. Alexander felt the heat of it in the bottom of his stomach, a dull, aching throb. “Because I’ve asked them, and they told me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Alexander said, not feeling sorry at all and hating himself for it. Thomas was his friend, and he was hurting. He was being selfish, as always.</p><p>He went to get them both another glass - French wine this time, because he knew Thomas had a thing for those types of posh, pretentious alcohols he couldn’t care less about - pressing it into Thomas’ hand as compensation for his insincerity. Alexander sipped his own far too quickly, and was sitting precariously on the edge of his seat when the next person stepped down from the table to a loud chorus of booing after reciting an impromptu poem. Alexander joined them, as the boy grinned toothily with a lurching curtsy when someone threw a handful of peanuts at his feet.</p><p>“Hey.” Thomas whacked him over the head. “Stop that. He’s only trying.”</p><p>“Yeah, but it was terrible.” It was. Besides, the boy didn’t seem to mind.</p><p>“And? You think you could do better?”</p><p>“Think? I know so. Here.”</p><p>Alexander got up without properly considering the consequences, the room tilting a little before righting itself as he made his way to the table. Someone, a boy; dark hair, warm gaze, stepped forward, offering a hand as Alexander climbed up, a little unsteadily. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s cheek, briefly inhaling the slightly heady rush of citrus and cigarette smoke, and straightened, wondering if he was imagining Thomas rolling his eyes.</p><p>“I am going to tell you a poem,” he told the crowd, mere shapes in the gloom, very carefully and deliberately placing the words together; the light casting a small halo around the table. Alexander felt like he was at the top of the world. Was this how the Greek gods felt, looking down on everyone from mount Olympus? How Icarus felt as he fell; surrounded by his halo of shame and defeat, or jubilant; the fire the proof of his daring.</p><p><i>Thomas loved someone.</i> </p><p>“If,” he started, his mind in the clouds; “I asked you, who do you love, / would you answer with a name? Or,” he turned slowly on the table, “would you tell me about a beating heart, / because it makes you feel the same.”</p><p>Icarus fell; maybe it was his downfall, maybe it was his salvation; but still: he fell.</p><p><i>Thomas loved someone.</i> </p><p>He wondered, far fetched and mind reeling a little; if he could fly, maybe he would choose to fall as well - because the sun was bright and hot and brilliant and who <i>wouldn’t</i> want to feel it’s strength and <i>so what</i> if that caused you to plummet to some kind of ill-conceived purgatory and <i>Thomas loved someone.</i> </p><p>“When the devil whispers, hell will be your kingdom dear, / we’ll go without a thought. / I think that’s why we fall so quickly, / not for love but because we’re bored.” Icarus fell, he thought, because he fell in love with the <i>what if</i>, the <i>perhaps</i>, the <i>maybe. That</i> was his downfall.</p><p>Maybe it was his <i>own</i> downfall: he chose to think about that <i>what if</i>  - not that Thomas <i>loved someone</i> and why, <i>why</i> was he feeling a boiling, <i>confusing</i> rush of anger and hurt and something <i>nastily</i> close to jealousy - a sourness that stuck at the back of his throat that he had <i>no right</i> to feel - Thomas was his friend and he should be <i>happy for him</i> -</p><p>“We’re told cigars will end our life, / but still we watch them burn. Because pain has a weird kind of thrill / for which we can’t help but yearn. There’s a beguiling satisfaction to loneliness, / relish in a broken heart. Do you think Eve ate the apple unwillingly, / or has sin become an art?”</p><p> </p><p>He sat back down beside Thomas amid applause this time, not catcalls, with a lopsided, triumphant grin.</p><p>Thomas shook his head, swallowing back a smile. “The lengths you go to just so you can prove someone wrong are shocking.”</p><p>“Not at all, it’s called fucking pride,” Alexander shrugged, then, mirroring Thomas from earlier, his heart skipping a beat in anticipation; “your turn?”</p><p>“Alex, please no,” Thomas was smiling at him, but there was a slight pull behind his eyes. “You know I hate public speaking.”</p><p>“Oh yeah! I’d forgotten about that.”</p><p>“Lucky you.”</p><p>“Ahh,” Alexander waved his hand airily, “you’ll be fine. Have another of these.” He held out his glass.</p><p>Thomas smirked, voice low and a little strained as he leaned over and said, breath ghosting Alexander’s ear; “I have another of those and I’ll be doing things I really shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Like getting up on that table.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Thomas pulled back and gave a non-committal grunt. “Please don’t make me.”</p><p>The prospect of no French was a mildly depressing fate.</p><p>“Okay,” Alexander looked down, swirling the remainder of his drink around the glass. “Would you just do it for me then? You did promise, after all,” he added hastily, “and that’s just unfair of you.”</p><p>“Okay,” Thomas agreed, grudgingly, “fine.”</p><p>Alexander grinned, victorious, then, because he had been wondering; “hey, was playing at the funeral as bad as you thought it would be?”</p><p>“Yeah - no. I don’t know.” Thomas shrugged, “anyway, Jane asked me to, the last time I saw her, so I would have done it regardless.”</p><p>“Oh.” Alexander wondered how many funerals Thomas would be asked to play at before it was his own turn. Then he wondered why he was being so morbid.</p><p>“It’s because, as you say, you’re the greatest pessimist to have ever lived.”</p><p>“You can <i>hear</i> my thoughts?”</p><p>Thomas laughed. “Yes Alex, I know everything that goes through your head.”</p><p>“Oh my god.” Alexander sat there in stunned horror, desperately trying to push the mantra of <i>sexy French</i> out of his mind. </p><p>Thomas was shaking his head. “I think I had better drink the rest of that.” He tugged the glass out of Alexander’s loose grip, downed what was left with a wince then said; “okay, I have an idea.”</p><p>“Oh yes?” Alexander looked sideways at him, momentarily distracted from his misery.</p><p>“You know how you asked me to play at your funeral, and I said only if you read a poem out at mine?”</p><p>“Definitely,” Alexander nodded. “One of our best plans don’t you think?”</p><p>“Well, I was thinking, uh -” he placed the glass carefully back on the table as though attempting to buy a little time.</p><p>“Spit it out.”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “I was thinking we could do original pieces. Like I’ll compose a piece just for your funeral and you write a poem just for mine.”</p><p>“I love how we have these positive conversations about death. Really shows what we truly care about.”</p><p>“I’m being serious!”</p><p>He was grinning; “I knew it! You’re a pessimist at heart, you can’t even hide it.”</p><p>“Am not.”</p><p>“But you know what that means?” Alexander shook his head a little, slightly irritated because how dare Thomas suggest something like that - so <i>casually,</i> like it was nothing and he wasn’t causing Alexander’s mind to stutter in his surety of absolutely <i>everything</i> he thought he knew and understood – “my thoughts of you will be the last thing your soul hears before it’s sent off into the ether.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Thomas shrugged, “and?”</p><p>“Well, that’s an awful eternity to condemn yourself to.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, you know I don’t believe in that anyway.”</p><p>He didn’t. They had discussed this. Argued, actually, extensively – Alexander didn’t understand. No afterlife, fine, but how could he not believe that humans had a soul when they all depended, literally life or death, on a soulmate. Thomas said it was bullshit. Alexander told him his head had been screwed on the wrong way.</p><p>“Okay. Like, you show me yours if I show you mine?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas smiled softly, a quiver in the dim light. “You carry my loss and I’ll carry yours. We’ll be each others’ goodbye. If you want,” he added, casually, as though it wasn’t everything.</p><p>But it was.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>What do you say to someone when it’s the last time you’ll ever get to speak to them?</p><p>How do you tell them everything you’ve ever wanted to say – when you don’t even know what that is. </p><p> </p><p>Later again, walking back in the early morning; both a still little unsteady and vulnerable, Alexander remembered.</p><p>“Hey! You never told me your poem.”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas groaned. “I was hoping you would forget that.”</p><p>“Not likely.”</p><p>“Do you ever give up?”</p><p>“Do you not know me?”</p><p>“Fine.” They had stopped under a streetlight. Thomas leant against it, apparently tired of arguing, but looking like he was regretting every opening his mouth. “Do you want me to translate it for you as well?”</p><p>“No,” Alexander said, after thinking for a minute, “then I can make it up myself.”</p><p>“Right. Uh,” Thomas glanced at him, lips curving with an amused twitch as though in spite of himself. “God, do I have to?”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Alexander smiled sweetly, “be thankful I’m not making you get up on that table.”</p><p>“We’ve left.”</p><p>“I could always drag you back.”</p><p>“Fine. <i>Fine.</i>” Thomas closed his eyes, screwing up his face, but, with a hint of a smile; <i>“Elle est retrouvée.  Quoi? L'Éternité.  C'est la mer allée avec le soleil.” (It has been rediscovered. What? Eternity. It is the sea fled with the sun.)</i></p><p>Alexander swallowed, watching him. </p><p><i>Thomas.</i> His fluttering lashes and his soft lips and his high cheekbones that undercut his expressions with a proud, slightly daring confidence. His eyes, crinkling at the corners slightly as he bit back a smile, the slope of his shoulders, and the curve of his neck, hidden, sadly, beneath his collar. </p><p>And skin, skin, skin.</p><p>
  <i>“Âme sentinelle, murmurons l'aveu, de la nuit si nulle, et du jour en feu.”(Sentinel soul, we whisper confessions of the empty night and the fiery day.)</i>
</p><p>The sun, on his throat, tucked under his shirt – Alexander knew where, now. His sister, weighing on his shoulders, his hands on the piano keys, and his dark gaze. Endless, endless.</p><p>
  <i>“Puisque de vous seules, braises de satin, le Devoir s'exhale sans qu'on dise : enfin.” (Since from you alone, satin embers, duty breathes, no one says: at last.)</i>
</p><p>His cats smile, in class, across the room; their hands, brushing with the smallest touch – barely there, imagined, even; his reticent wit, the press of his knee, a glance and, <i>I need you, Alex.</i></p><p><i>“Là pas d'espérance, nul orietur.” (No hope here, no emergence.)</i> </p><p>God, this boy. How was he real? Alexander couldn’t fathom it – everything about him, why was it all, so – <i>god. Thomas. Thomas fucking Jefferson</i> – standing there all sharp hips and shaky hands, giving him little parts of himself in whispered French prose, and Alexander could feel every word in a scorching heat over his skin, as though Thomas’ lips were pressing against him instead of wrapping around the syllables; pressing against his collar bone, kissing his palm, kissing the river running down his back, the envelopes that fell like rain down his thigh. And it was – Alexander didn’t know – just <i>him</i>; how Thomas softened sometimes, smiled at him with a gentle <i>chérie</i>, his uncharacteristic messiness, how he looked at Jean as though she made the world right itself, his stubbornness, his love of fucking Tchaikovsky, his – just, <i>everything</i>. His hair, never where he wanted it, curls always falling into his eyes, the faint, head-spinning hint of coconut, his lips against Alexander’s cheek with <i>bonne chance</i> whispered in his ear and, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.</p><p>
  <i>“Science avec patience, le supplice est sûr.” (Knowledge with patience, torment is certain.)</i>
</p><p>You be my goodbye and I’ll be yours.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title, and Thomas' poem is 'L'Eternité' by Arthur Rimbaud, and translated by Frederic Bibard. </p><p>Someone said drunk Alex was normal Alex with a side of chaos multiplied by 17.4 and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it so that's the mood for the chapter.  </p><p>Anyway, I hope this was okay. As always, if you have a spare moment please consider leaving a comment - they mean so much to me, as you know &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. you will never be lovlier than you are now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a persistent worry, a promise in the form of letters, and the beginnings of a scandal</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>alternative title: Alex is suddenly the ultimate definition of gay panic for 8k</p><p>somehow every time I edit a chapter intending to cut stuff out, I end up adding an extra 4k and I really have nothing to say for myself. Find the point where I tried to procrastinate John being miserable and so waffled on for a few paragraphs that serve absolutely no purpose and are completely unnecessary. Sorry, it's kind of tedious</p><p>countdown for when Alex realises he's been an idiot? One chapter left ahh</p><p>also please appreciate the last tag I added on haha</p><p>Thank you all SO MUCH for your support and love and kind words, and special thanks to @fitsofpassion for helping me get my ideas for this straight &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For some reason, Alexander didn’t want to go back to college. On his last night in Virginia, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to rationalise it, because typically after every break all he wanted to do was <i>get back into it,</i> was never reluctant, never felt anything close to apprehension - and <i>definitely</i> never decidedly just <i>didn’t want to go.</i> </p><p>He <i>liked</i> college. Loved it, even. Fact. There were things he loved there, too. Nina. The library. The lake. The hash browns. His classes. Facts. He liked gossiping with Angelica. Fact. He liked listening to Lafayette grumble about anything and everything. Fact. He liked sharing a room with John and knowing what mood he was in from the way he would nod hello. Fact. He liked when Liz and Maria and Eliza would find him in the library and fuss over him. Fact. He liked that his Professors would always answer his questions regardless of how late it was when he knocked on their office doors. Fact. He liked the familiarity, the routine, liked cramming his brain with information, liked the early mornings and late nights and the exams and the crappy coffee and the mad rush when you were late to class and the stained glass windows and the stone corridors and the staircase up to the dorms. Fact. <i>Fact fact fact.</i></p><p>So why, <i>why,</i> did he feel like he was going to lose something the second he stepped on the train that would take him back to New Jersey?</p><p>Was it possible to fall in love with a place? There was something about Thomas’ home, about being here <i>with</i> Thomas, that Alexander was, he could admit, reluctant to let go of. He wasn’t sure why, but something told him that as soon as he left he would never feel anything quite like this again.</p><p>Sometimes, with a kind of cruel, premature nostalgia, when, in the middle of something so good, you get a sense of what it will feel like after that thing has passed, even while you are, at that time, still in the middle of experiencing it. Even as Alexander lay among the Virginian countryside, enveloped in the warm sheets of the guest bed, Thomas’ arm slung across his stomach, and staring at the Victorian ceiling tiles above him, his mind was already months ahead, back at college amid his papers, and his throat was aching with how much he missed it all. The sprawling grounds, Jean and the way she reached for him, so easily, so thoughtlessly. Mary and Peter and their arguing, Annie and the way she unquestionably trusted him, Marjorie showing him how to cook smashed potatoes, the slightly over-growing vegetable garden, how the kitchen made him remember his mamá, Thomas at the piano.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like it here?” he had asked Thomas the afternoon before, as they were walking back from an errand in the village – Marjorie had run out of flour and needed some urgently.</p><p>“What, here?” Thomas waved a hand around, an eyebrow raised in question as he turned to shut the gate behind them.</p><p>When Alexander nodded he shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p>He didn’t buy the carelessness with which Thomas answered, so; “does it feel like home?” he pressed.</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe not, not anymore.” Thomas paused, gaze wandering down the drive, taking in the weathered yellow sandstone of the house – slightly blurry in the distance. “I guess, in my mind I have three homes. Here, because it’s where I was born, and where my childhood was. It had Jane, and my parents. France, because that’s where I learnt how to live, and where I lost my childhood. I met Laf. I fell in love with music.”</p><p>Alexander, who only ever had one home - one that now only existed in his memory, wondered if Thomas knew the luxury of having three. What must it feel like, to belong in so many places? </p><p>“And the third home?”</p><p>“College, I guess.”</p><p>Alexander snorted. “You have <i>this,</i> which would literally be the Queen’s summer home if it were in Scotland, or somewhere posh and British, and you call <i>college</i> a home?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Thomas said, voice tilting a little defensively, “we do live there for a majority of the year.”</p><p>“So?” Alexander laughed, “that’s ridiculous. Just because you live somewhere doesn’t make it a home.”</p><p>“You dick. There are other reasons.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah? Like what?”</p><p>“Like,” Thomas gave a half smile, “my composition class. Like the music section in the library. Like,” he glanced sideways, catching Alexander’s gaze for a split second, “like how I met you there.”</p><p>“Oh. Those are pretty good reasons,” he conceded grudgingly.</p><p> </p><p>They were almost at the house when Thomas broke the silence. “You know, it’ll be mine.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The house.”</p><p>“Oh, really?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas frowned. “Traditionally, estate is passed to the eldest child, or son. Which is me.”</p><p>“Oh.” Alexander was quiet for a moment, toes scuffing on the soft gravel, trying to think of something to say, when;</p><p>“I don’t know if I’d want it, though.”</p><p>“Really?” He gazed around at the house, and thought, not for the first time, how beautiful it was. “Too many memories?”</p><p>“Something like that,” Thomas gave a half shrug, “and it’s a bit big. I’d be rattling around in it.”</p><p>“So fill it with people.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he added, when Thomas shot him a quizzical look, “turn it into a school? Or an orphanage, or a research centre or something. Have a herd of children.” He shot Thomas a grin; “Little wild-haired, Tchaikovsky loving Thomas’.”</p><p>Thomas’ smile was small. “Maybe.”</p><p>They had stopped walking. Alexander turned to him, and, because Thomas was looking so doubtful, so uncertain, almost <i>hesitant,</i> and it made his chest ache; “Thomas,” he said quietly, “you’ll meet your soulmate. I know you will.”</p><p>Thomas looked at him for so long, something burning behind his gaze that Alexander couldn’t decipher, that he had to look away.</p><p>“You will,” he repeated softly, stubbornly, more to himself than to Thomas. <i>“Te mereces un final lejano, mi amor.” – You deserve a distant ending, my love.</i></p><p> </p><p>“Alex,” they had reached the kitchen, and Thomas had grabbed his arm just before he opened the door, hesitated, with something wild and slightly reckless in his expression, then; “Alex, I have to tell you something.”</p><p>“What?” he asked, hoping he sounded casual, totally nonchalant, like that question didn’t spark some kind of primal, guttural fear within him, didn’t make his mind conjure up every possible scenario, practical and likely at first, <i>Alex, I don’t want to talk to you anymore; Alex, you’re becoming a burden; Alex, back at college, I’m going to pretend I never knew you, you’re an embarrassment,</i> and growing increasingly more preposterous but also, to him, just as likely, <i>Alex, I’m going back to France; Alex, Abigail and I are sleeping together, Alex, I’ve found my soulmate</i> - </p><p>“I -” Thomas paused, only for a second, but in that second, which seemed to stretch for months, for years, in which Alexander’s heart beat so fast he thought he might faint, felt his head grow hot and light and, in which, whatever recklessness Thomas had seemed to be feeling seemed to shrivel, crumpled on his face into regret and annoyance, and, with a small shake of his head; “nothing, it doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“What?” Alexander asked again, thinking it probably <i>did</i> matter, whatever it was, and when Thomas shook his head more forcefully, pushing past him into the kitchen, muttering; “forget it,” Alexander scowled, shaky and a little angry, because he <i>wouldn’t</i> forget it, <i>couldn’t</i> even though he wanted to - would be reminded it every time Thomas frowned, every time he hesitated, wondering if it was something he could have done, something he could have changed or fixed.</p><p> </p><p>Thomas had been in a strange mood afterwards– unusually short with everyone and quick to snap. Alexander wondered if maybe Thomas was feeling the same unsettledness that he was, or maybe he just wanted to be around his family for a while longer. Whatever it was, Alexander let him have his space and had hidden away in his room under the pretence of packing, when, pushing back his sleeve, he saw it.</p><p>Thomas found him like that, holding his arm and smiling slightly; it was delicate and beautiful and, “I think it’s a harp!” Alexander said, unable to keep quiet, voice a little high and tinged with a hint of excitement.</p><p>“No, it’s a lyre,” Thomas said, without even looking, walking across the room to pull the curtains.</p><p>“How do you know that?” Alexander frowned, watching him.</p><p>“I take music, don’t I?” Thomas said abruptly, and Alexander shrugged, because, well, what did he know?</p><p>Obviously not very much, because, again, later, sitting with Anna curled up next to him on the sofa, listening to her translate a book of folk tales into Spanish, correcting her occasionally when she faltered, he’d looked up and there was Thomas in the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching him, brow furrowed. Alexander smiled, about to quip, ‘having fun there,’ or even ‘like what you see?’ but Thomas had turned away, glowering ever so slightly and Alexander hadn’t seen him again until dinner, when, sitting down and picking up his fork he’d had to stifle a gasp because <i>two in one day,</i> and it was small, slightly imperfect, clearly someone’s handwriting, looping a circle around the jam jar on his wrist; <i>avec mon amour, toujours et pour toujours,</i> and, “I think it might be French,” he murmured, more to himself, but;</p><p>“Of course it’s French,” came the bitten off reply and Alexander had shut up for the rest of dinner, certain, now, that something was <i>wrong,</i> that he had said something out of place, done something he shouldn’t have, and he was halfway through making a list in his mind of all the possible things that could have upset Thomas when he dropped his knife onto his half empty plate, was pushing back from the table, had grabbed Alexander’s arm and dragged him unceremoniously from the room.</p><p>Alexander was spluttering out a protest, a garbled mix of something between <i>what</i> and <i>the fuck,</i> when Thomas had pushed him roughly against the wall and whatever he’d been about to say next died on his lips because Thomas was almost <i>glaring</i> at him, jaw tight and hands a little shaky and <i>oh, god,</i> but then Thomas had dropped his head onto his shoulder, was whispering <i>sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to,</i> and <i>fuck, Alex, I just miss her so much,</i> and Alexander gripped him, pressed his face into Thomas’ neck, told him, <i>of course</i> and <i>no tienes que disculparte, amor, no has hecho nada malo, claro que no, todo está bien,</i> even as his heart pounded, even as he told himself he <i>shouldn’t be feeling like this</i> but he’d dare anyone to honestly say they could keep their heart beating a normal rate when Thomas Jefferson backed them up against a wall with his fists clenched and eyes dark and stormy.</p><p> </p><p>Now, in bed, staring at the ceiling, Alexander was falling into steadily mounting panic. <i>Relax,</i> he told himself, trying to breath; Thomas would still be Thomas when they went back to college. Would be just as he had always been. Was that what he was afraid of? Of losing him?</p><p>“Promise me,” he whispered to Thomas, “promise me you’ll stay?”</p><p>Beside him, Thomas slept, and Alexander found his answer in the silence.</p><p> </p><p>The train was due to leave at nine in the morning, so Alexander was surprised when Thomas wandered into the kitchen at seven thirty, where he had been watching the square of sky framed by the window as it turned slowly to a faded blue.  </p><p>“You’re up early,” Alexander said, pushing a mug of coffee towards Thomas as he sat down, “you do know we don’t have to leave for another hour, right?”</p><p>Thomas didn’t look at him, nursing the mug between his hands for a moment before he replied. “I want to show you something.”</p><p>They finished their coffee, then Thomas led him out the kitchen door, through the grounds at the back of the house, and down to the small collection of trees that lined the edge of the property like a fence. Alexander followed the path Thomas weaved between them, soft, still-wet grass springing back up in his wake, little patches of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the trees. Dimly, the sound of running water reached him, mingling with calls of the birds, and, as Thomas pushed back the drooping branches of a willow tree, Alexander saw it: a river.</p><p>“Wow,” he said, looking around, “you have everything here.” </p><p>It was beautiful, shallow with clear water. Moss clung to the stones that lined its floor, willow tree branches falling into the water at random intervals along the bank – twisting as far as Alexander could see in each direction. It wasn’t too wide, either, softly trickling over the stones.</p><p>“I wanted to show you this,” Thomas was speaking slowly, carefully, “because, when we were young, Jane and I used to come here a lot - there were tadpoles in the water during summer that we’d catch and, sometimes, if it was cold enough, the water would freeze over in winter, and we’d jump on the ice to try and break it.” He paused for a second, then; “being here always reminds me of her.”</p><p>Alexander smiled a little, imagining them, younger - like in the photograph Thomas kept above his desk in his room in their dorm, laughing and kicking water over each other; “that sounds like such a nice childhood,” he started, then stopped, suddenly catching onto Thomas’ words, something close to terror gripping at him. </p><p>
  <i>Being here reminds me of her.</i>
</p><p>On his back, he knew, had <i>seen</i> it, was a tattoo of a river. But – no. It couldn’t. <i>Couldn’t.</i></p><p>Could it?</p><p>Heart beating so loud he could hear its pulse in his ears, turning away so Thomas wouldn’t see his hesitation, he asked, failing to keep the slight tremor out of his voice, “why did you bring me here?”</p><p>“I guess,” Thomas paused, and Alexander heard him take a deep breath before continuing, “I guess there are a couple of things I need to let go of. And I didn’t want to do it alone.”</p><p>Of course. He needed to say goodbye to Jane.</p><p><i>Soulmates,</i> Alexander scoffed at himself for even allowing the thought to cross his mind – whatever was he thinking? He was the last person to ever fit with someone like Thomas. He still couldn’t even believe, sometimes, that Thomas even wanted him around.</p><p>He waited for his heart rate to return to something more on the lines of normal, stomach sinking with something heavy, closer to bitter disappointment than relief, before he turned back; Thomas had sat down on a rock, legs drawn up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees and looking a little small and lost as he stared at the water.</p><p>Alexander felt his throat tighten; how could he ever think that he was good enough? He shook his head. <i>Thomas.</i> His beautiful, kind boy.</p><p>No, not his. Never his.</p><p><i>Thomas,</i> he wanted to say - almost did, but didn’t. <i>Thomas, you deserve everything good.</i></p><p> </p><p>Anna was waiting for them when they got back to the house and Alexander almost turned around to walk straight back down to the lake again. He had never been very good at goodbyes.</p><p>He waited, foot jiggling nervously while Thomas scooped her up, whispering something in French that made her giggle, and that Alexander couldn’t hear – wouldn’t be able to understand even if he could.</p><p>“I’ll be in the car,” Thomas told him with a small smile when he’d let Anna down.</p><p><i>“Alex, he estado pensando,” – Alex, I’ve been thinking,</i> Anna said seriously, turning to him when Thomas had shut the door quietly behind him.</p><p><i>“Tienes ahora?” – have you now,</i> he gave her a smile he hoped didn’t look as wobbly as it felt.</p><p>“Yes, and without you I have no one to speak Spanish with, so I thought maybe I could write to you,” she said in a rush, as though if she didn’t say it quick enough she would lose her nerve, adding, a little doubtfully, <i>“para practicar, si?” – for practice?</i></p><p>“Oh!” he almost laughed, something painfully close to relief flooding through him, “of course I’ll write to you. For practice,” he winked, and Anna smiled shyly. “How about I write first because I know your address.”</p><p>“Okay.” Anna clung onto his hand as they walked to the front door, her fingers small and warm and comforting in his. “Will you write straight away?”</p><p>“Of course,” he stopped at the steps.</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>“I promise,” he leant down, letting her wrap her arms around his neck, press a little kiss to his cheek, and then hurried down the steps before he could do something utterly pathetic and cry in front of a seven year old.</p><p>Thomas was already in the backseat, and they both turned as Jean pulled away from the steps, watching Anna’s small figure grow into a tiny spec, her hand raised as she waved them goodbye.</p><p>The car ride was short, Thomas telling Jean about his midterm for music, and Alexander let Thomas’ voice wash over him, staring out of the window and wondering if he would ever see anything like this again. Jean kissed both Thomas’ cheeks in farewell at the station, and, when Thomas ducked into the boot of the car to get their bags, took Alexander by the hand and pulled him aside.</p><p>“Alex,” she said kindly, eyes reaching into his own, placing a hand on either side of his face so that her gentleness seemed to frame him, to hold him in place, “you’re welcome back here any time, will you remember that?”</p><p>He nodded, so caught up in an affection that was so distinctly <i>motherly,</i> something that he hadn’t felt in so, so long that he didn’t know if he would be able to say anything, hoping that Jean understood what that meant to him, was about to smile and go to where Thomas was waiting but Jean leant forward, kissed the top of his forehead so tenderly he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut, and said;</p><p>“Alexander Hamilton, you’re one of the best things that has ever happened to Thomas.”</p><p>She seemed so sure; her gaze firm and trusting, and he didn’t have the heart to disagree with her.</p><p> </p><p>The Princeton grounds were quiet and still when they got back – most students were returning from break tomorrow, as it was the last day before term started.</p><p>“Nina!” Alexander exclaimed when he pushed open the door of Thomas’ room, dropping his bag on the floor and hurrying around the bed, <i>“mi niña, mi amor, lo siento mucho, has estado solas, nos has extrañado? – my little one, my love, I’m so sorry, have you been lonely, have you missed us?</i></p><p>“We are never leaving her again!” he rounded on Thomas who had sunk down to sit on the edge of his unmade bed, and was watching him with a soft smile.</p><p>Thomas shook his head slightly, <i>“tu vois combien il t’aime, Nina?”</i></p><p>Alexander huffed, turning back and leaning against the windowsill, settling down even as Thomas protested – “it’s <i>late</i> Alex, can’t you do this tomorrow -” shutting up when Alexander shot him a glare, throwing up his hands in defeat and moving off into the bathroom; <i>“pues, amor,”</i> Alexander said, turning back to Nina, and told her about the funeral, about Anna, about Thomas’ home, and how he didn’t think he would ever see it again, about Marjorie and her cooking, about Jean, about how he felt strange, about how he was <i>sure</i> something was off, that he couldn’t work out what it was – about how ridiculous it was to feel like he was going to lose Thomas, because Thomas was right <i>there,</i> so he was being stupid, wasn’t he, and how thank fuck Thomas couldn’t speak Spanish, because well, he’d be screwed, and he was halfway through wondering if <i>Nina</i> could even speak Spanish, wondering if fish could understand anything at all, maybe he should be speaking another language, like Latin, or maybe Welsh, or maybe –</p><p>“Alex,” Thomas groaned eventually, raising his head from where he’d been resting it on his book, lying on his stomach on the bed, and had clearly given up reading a while ago, “<i>enough,</i> for fuck’s sake. It’s late.”</p><p>“Fine,” Alexander conceded, because he <i>was</i> kind of tired, but it was only when he pushed himself upright that the thought struck him and he froze, fumbling a little with a fresh unsurety. </p><p>
  <i>Where was he going to sleep?</i>
</p><p>Half of him, the half that <i>liked</i> the weight of Thomas arm around him, had grown comfortable and <i>accustomed</i> to waking to Thomas’ warm body pressed against his each morning, teasing and grumbling lightly until they were both awake enough to get up - that half said <i>here,</i> but the other – the half that was stuttering a little of late, the half getting caught up on strange things at strange times; Thomas, walking out of the bathroom after a shower a couple mornings ago, hair wet and dripping, and still pulling on his shirt – covering, but just before Alexander had seen, the curve of his waist – far too much skin than he was accustomed to and Alexander had yelped, thinking about the sun on the smooth skin of his neck, standing under the streetlight murmuring; <i>"sans qu'on dise : enfin,"</i> - sprung off the bed and locked himself in the bathroom before Thomas had even opened his mouth because <i>fuck,</i> or when Alexander had sat on the sofa, nose buried in the pages of Hemmingway, absently listening to Thomas as he practiced some of the more intricate bars in a piece he had to learn for one of his classes, something he kept getting wrong, or so he said, even though he sounded fine to Alexander, and he had slammed his fist on the keys halfway through a cord, letting out a garbled string of French curses and Alexander had almost dropped his book – had to bend his head even further behind the pages to hide a blush that was <i>entirely</i> uncalled for – <i>that</i> half, which liked the warmth of Thomas’ legs tangled with his a <i>little</i> too much told Alexander he should definitely <i>not</i> be sleeping here.</p><p>Not when it was <i>supposed</i> to be because Thomas needed comfort. Not because that was all well over a week ago now – because it probably wasn’t <i>strictly</i> necessary anymore, and not when, by staying, he would be admitting, in an offhand kind of way, that he wanted to for <i>other</i> reasons. Not when it was less of staying because he was a good friend, and friends help each other, and more of staying because he <i>wanted;</i> less of <i>you’ve lost your sister and I’m doing you a favour because I care about you</i> and more <i>I like how your voice is in the morning, low and slightly rough when you say my name, how you pull me in and hold me there, how I want</i> –</p><p>“So,” Thomas had pushed himself up, and was looking up at Alexander with a closed off, slightly withdrawn expression. Alexander wondered if Thomas was trying to find the politest way to ask him to leave – just because <i>he</i> was being a pathetic nut-case didn’t mean Thomas cared all that much about anything now he was feeling a little better.</p><p>“Well, night,” he said abruptly, heart pattering in embarrassment, not looking at Thomas as he hurriedly scooped his bag up off the floor, was pulling the door shut behind him even as Thomas called; “Alex! Wait -” and didn’t stop to think or catch his breath until he was standing in his own dorm room, cold and a little dusty, exactly as he had left it, clutching his bag to his chest and breath coming out in harsh little puffs.</p><p>He couldn’t. He could <i>not</i> feel like this.</p><p><i>Couldn’t,</i> because Thomas was his friend, and if he wanted Thomas to keep talking to him he <i>couldn’t</i> and <i>you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him</i> and damn it all if he was going to disappoint Jean.</p><p>He threw his bag onto John’s empty bed, pulled on a loose t-shirt, climbed under his sheets and fell asleep repeating, like a mantra, as though it would actually help things, as though if he said it enough it would be true; <i>couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t.</i></p><p>
  
</p><p><i>He was standing behind their kitchen table – barricading himself behind the wood as though it would protect him, his father was rooting through the flour tin, throwing it to the floor in disgust; ‘where’s the fucking money, you pathetic, worthless</i> -’</p><p>Alexander woke with a start, reached an arm blindly to the side where he had a little alarm clock resting on a stack of books by his bed.</p><p>
  <b>01:07.</b>
</p><p>He sighed and rolled over.</p><p><i>His mamá was kneeling beside a patch of potatoes growing in their little garden, ‘mira, mi pequeño, así las cubres para que crezcan,’ - she threw a handful of soil at him, tipping her head back in a laugh as he scrambled to throw some back</i> –</p><p><b>02:48.</b> </p><p><i>Twelve years old with no parents and a cigarette between his lips, walking down to the docks, the sky still mottled pink with dawn, fading slowly to grey as he stood, watching the hullabaloo unfold below him: men throwing crates and rope onto decks, men guiding sheep up planks, straining at their collars, bleating faint protests, men hauling baskets full of still weakly wriggling fish, baskets of potatoes, baskets of grain – passengers, lining the docks with their sleek boots and curled hair and ironed jackets, clutching leather suitcases and tickets, and he can smell the salt and the filth and the tangy, slightly stodgy stench of wet animal and thinks, libertad: freedom – “que cuesta?” shouting over the noise at one of the men, nodding towards the passengers and the man laughs, ‘más de lo que tienes,’ shakes his head, flicks his wrist like he’s shooing away a fly – ‘piérdrete, rata’</i> –</p><p>
  <b>04:16.</b>
</p><p><i>Walking home one night - not his home, a second-hand home, full of things he used to try and fill the hole in his heart - bottle in hand, smile on his still-sticky lips – pushing open the door, and there is Pete – his cousin, hanging from the rafters by his neck – face still red, and the bottle falls from his hand, the floor is red now</i> –</p><p>
  <b>05:07.</b>
</p><p>Alexander pushed back the covers, gritting his teeth; <i>enough.</i> He pulled on a pair of jeans – John’s, apparently, by the way they were slightly too long, dug in his bag for his cardigan, and grabed a book at random from his desk – the Tchaikovsky that he had started reading before he left – before slipping out of the room and padding down the stairs to the grounds.</p><p>He needs coffee. He needs to read, and stop <i>remembering</i> and not <i>think.</i></p><p> </p><p>The corridors were, unsurprisingly, totally silent as Alexander made his way to the great hall; empty except for a solitary figure midway down one of the tables.</p><p>“Hey you,” Alexander said, shivering a little and pulling his cardigan tighter around himself. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Thomas looked up, lips curving into a small smile. He had his composition papers spread out in front of him; Alexander could see the staves covered in Thomas’ little squiggly notes.</p><p>“I couldn’t sleep,” Thomas shrugged, then frowned, squinting at the book Alexander was clutching. “Is that Tchaikovsky?”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander felt himself blushing, “uh, yeah.”</p><p>“Why are you reading about Tchaikovsky?”</p><p>“Because you never shut up about the stupid guy,” Alexander lied, “and I wanted to see if he was worth making a fuss about.”</p><p>Thomas was biting back a smile. “And is he?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet.” Alexander swung his leg over the bench and sat down opposite him. “Have you been here long?”</p><p>“Only about an hour,” Thomas said, then paused, looking down at his papers, twisting his pencil between his fingers, then, with a small shrug of would-be indifference; “felt kinda strange, you know, without you there.”</p><p>It took Alexander a second to realise what Thomas meant. “Oh!” he said, heart jumping nervously; tried to laugh it off and couldn’t quite manage it. “Yeah, well, I <i>am</i> really easy to miss.”</p><p>“You are.” Thomas looked up at him quickly, and Alexander stared determinedly down at his page.</p><p>“Why haven’t they brought the coffee out yet?” he said, mainly to stop his insides from squirming uncomfortably.</p><p>“Alex, it’s not even light out, you expect to be waited on all throughout the night?”</p><p>“No,” Alexander glared at him indignantly, “I’m just saying, I’d like there to be coffee readily available. People are stressed, you know.”</p><p>Thomas shook his head a little in exasperation. “I think they start bringing things out at six.”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander sniffed, settling down to read. They were quiet for a few moments before Thomas blurted, as though he couldn’t quite stop himself but wished he could; “I was wondering, I mean, I wanted to ask, did you - do you have any more tattoos?”</p><p>“Huh?” Alexander asked, nonplussed, “what, you mean new ones that weren’t there yesterday?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas was refusing to catch his eye.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “I haven’t really thought about it…or looked.” He stared at Thomas’ bent head, trying to figure out why he would ask something like that, and, a little suspiciously, when he couldn’t come up with a reason he could justify; “why?”</p><p>“No reason,” Thomas said quickly, “I just – well, you had so many new tattoos yesterday, so I don’t know. I guess I was just curious.”</p><p>“Oh. Well, I don’t think so.” Alexander hadn’t actually considered the possibility that he would have anymore, and now Thomas had mentioned it he couldn’t shake the thought. Would he? Maybe his soulmate was having a pretty bad time at the moment. Considering the fact that, up until recently, he was lucky if he got a new tattoo every <i>year,</i> would never have imagined getting multiple in the same <i>day,</i> he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel as sorry for his soulmate as he knew he probably should. </p><p>“Hey!” he said with a laugh, a couple of minutes later, “look at this! Did you know that Tchaikovsky married and then had a breakdown six weeks later?”</p><p>“Yeah I did,” Thomas smiled, “he was a bit of a nervous wreck, actually. Kind of like you.”</p><p>“I am not a <i>wreck,</i>” Alexander said hotly, “I have everything under <i>perfect</i> control, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Gradually, as the morning wore on students began to arrive back, laden with suitcases and books, and by ten the hall was starting to feel distinctly crowded. A few people who knew Thomas had come to sit with them, and Alexander had long since tuned out of conversations that were peppered with words such as <i>authentic cadence - it would sound better as plagal</i> or <i>yeah, but everyone knows when he says larghetto he actually means larghissimo</i> or <i>Marga’s just got a new suite out - viola, fuck’s sake, I had to transpose it - ricochet arpeggios, absolute nightmare - no, Lio, you’re just lazy.</i> Alexander had finished his book, had started a list of pros and cons on Tchaikovsky on the back of his napkin - pros; studied law, was very gay, and, cons; liked to pick mushrooms, frankly fucking <i>dangerous</i> and possibly lethal - and was half wondering if John would have arrived back by now, if he should go up to his room to check because he really wanted to listen to someone that wasn’t <i>still</i> bleating about <i>Marga’s fucking arpeggios,</i> when Martha swept in out of nowhere, cheeks a little pink from the cold, inserted herself seamlessly between the conversation without interrupting it, and bent to press a kiss to Thomas’ temple.</p><p>“Hi, Alex!” She straightened and smiled warmly at him, “did you have a good break?”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks,” he said, smiling back, and then, remembering what she had been telling him the last time he had seen her at the end of term; “how’s your grandma?”</p><p>“Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” she said, “yeah, she’s doing okay now, it was really nice to see her again.”</p><p>“Did I miss something?” Thomas cut in, turning away from an argument that had now progressed from the arpeggios to Lio’s apparent chronic laziness, and looking back and forth between them.</p><p>“No,” Martha smiled at him, “though I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”</p><p>“Oh, have you now?” Thomas raised his eyebrows, and he was in a good mood, Alexander noticed, watching the slight smirk threatening to pull up the corners of his mouth, the light glint behind his eyes, and realised that although <i>he</i> hadn’t wanted to leave Virginia, Thomas had <i>needed</i> to - it was probably worse to stay somewhere where every object, every surface and room only served to remind him of Jane, of things that were now out of reach, and it soothed Alexander’s conscience a little, to see Thomas so relaxed, almost teasing, even though something still felt <i>off</i>, even though he <i>still</i> couldn’t shake the undeniable feeling, settled somewhere deep within him like a dormant creature that something was <i>wrong</i>; “should I be worried?”</p><p>As Martha smiled, rolling her eyes, Alexander pushed himself up off the bench, thinking now would be a good time to slip away and check for John.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Thomas asked automatically, the second he had stood, eyes snapping away from Martha.</p><p>“I wanted to see if John was back.”</p><p>“Oh,” Thomas paused, watching him close Tchaikovsky, “will you come down again later?”</p><p>“I don’t know? I’ll find you.”</p><p>“Okay,” Thomas said, nodding, and, somewhat reluctantly it seemed, turned back to Martha.</p><p> </p><p>Alexander knew something was wrong the second he opened the door of their room.</p><p>John was sitting on his bed, staring absently out the window, looking like he’d only just arrived, his bag on the floor beside him and coat still on, collar still turned up against his throat from the wind outside.</p><p>“Hey!” Alexander was worried because John rarely got like this, was usually the more optimistic, most effervescent of everyone he knew; he had catalogued his friends’ mood swings, their habitualities and mannerisms so he could tell when something was off, so he knew <i>straight away</i> because how could he not, how could he let anyone else come to close to how he felt, half the time - <i>most</i> of the time; worried and anxious and unsure, and he knew how utterly <i>shit</i> it was to feel like that, and he loved them all too much to ever let that happen, and so he <i>knew</i> them - </p><p>Eliza; practical and calm and easily hurt, who took everything to heart and needed to be defended or consoled with words, with promises, not a squeeze of her fingers between his, or a hand pressed to her shoulder in reassurance, even though that was how she comforted <i>others</i>, because she was paradoxical like that - </p><p> Laf, who only grumbled when he was in a good mood, when he didn’t <i>really</i> care, only did it to annoy them all and it was when he was <i>silent</i>, when he defended the things he usually complained about that it was time to worry, to shake him, say <i>spit it the fuck out</i>, because he never responded well to softness, liked brutal, easy to digest staccato sentences, and a harsh <i>I’m not leaving until you say</i>, no options, no requests, just demands-</p><p> Herc, ambivalent towards mostly everything, but say the wrong thing and his tolerance would snap, because he cared too much about what was right and good and if something wasn’t then he had <i>no patience for it</i> -</p><p>Maria, shy and hesitant and simultaneously so fiercely <i>certain</i> of everything - who you didn’t have to guess anything with because she <i>told you herself</i> the second something was amiss, and Alexander loved that, her brazen honesty, her willingness to clash rather than stubborn, sullen and irresolvable silence, whereas Angelica would hurtle through anything like a hurricane, bringing up debris and wrecking anything in her path and <i>who gave a fuck</i>, all the time except when it truly mattered, the things that bothered her so deeply they could leave scars, <i>those</i> things she kept silent about, would never say or even <i>think</i> about asking help for, would keep them close to her, behind the firm, drawn-in pinch of her mouth, the slight pull in her gaze whenever she looked at you - and if you <i>dare</i> say anything about it to her you would never be forgiven. </p><p>And Thomas - <i>dear God, Thomas</i>. Alexander hated it because Thomas was someone he <i>couldn’t</i> figure out; just when he thought he knew him, thought Thomas required the comfort of a presence - of someone simply being there with the dull, most obvious reminder of <i>you’re not on your own</i>, his eyes would grow cold just when Alexander thought he needed him, and he would disappear, would be silent and distant, and then, just as suddenly, there he was again like nothing had happened, and then, now thinking that Thomas needed space, a few days later, obviously hurt and vulnerable, Alexander would get up to leave, because isn’t that what he wanted, and all Alexander would get was <i>don’t you get it, Alex, I need you</i>, and <i>where are you going?</i> and <i>please, stay</i> and Alexander was just getting more and more <i>confused</i>, because <i>what the fuck did Thomas want</i>, was stuck on a skipping record of <i>needed, not needed</i> and <i>stay, leave</i> and <i>wanted, not wanted</i> - never sure which it would be, because Thomas wouldn’t tell him even if he asked. And <i>that was it</i> - his mind replaying the thought again and again, the shaggy, shadowy creature inside him raising a docile head - <i>that’s</i> what was worrying him, what was grating against his conscience - the fact that <i>Thomas wasn’t telling him something</i>, and it was something important, he knew, could <i>feel</i> it, and <i>why</i> - he knew there were things Thomas never said to him - to anyone, his tattoos, for one, why no one ever saw them - but that was something he never told anyone, and Alexander was fine with it - why <i>should</i> he, they were his, after all – but this was different, whatever it was, Alexander knew it with the same certainty he had known he would <i>get on that ship to America</i>, and here he was, wasn’t he? </p><p>But he couldn’t think about that now, because John was in front of him, John, who he <i>did</i> know, bubbly and teasing, but sometimes quiet and watchful, who would disappear into himself when something was bothering him, and who was now silent and distant and miles away, even though he was <i>right here</i>, and Alexander unthinkingly dropped Tchaikovsky by the door, scrambling to sit opposite him. Their beds were close enough together that their knees brushed slightly.</p><p>John turned to him with a small smile.</p><p>“Hey yourself. How was your break?”</p><p>“Don’t give me that,” Alexander said impatiently, scanning his face, taking in the slight pinch around the corners of his mouth, “what’s up?”</p><p>“How do you even know there <i>is</i> even-”</p><p>“You think I don’t know you?” he shook his head, “quit stalling.”</p><p>John stared at him silently for a moment, then looked away, back out the window, his hands fisting tightly on the sheets. “I -” he started, clenched his jaw for a second, then; “so, Louise and I spent the break together, right?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander said slowly, expecting the worst, “and how did that go?”</p><p>“Well, it was really good.”</p><p>He frowned, thrown off course for a second before John continued; “<i>so</i> good. I like her so much, Alex.” He looked at him, gaze cut at the corners by a pain Alexander couldn’t figure out. “I think I might even love her. And her family were so lovely, and we went out to bars and we danced and swam at dusk in the lake by her house, and it was just amazing.”</p><p>“Right.” Alexander nodded, “so where’s the bad bit?”</p><p>“Well, one night, two nights ago, actually, we were at a small social event her parents dragged us along to – and it should have been boring as hell, but I was with her, so it wasn’t. And we spent the whole time making fun of it all, and everything was so good, and then she went to the bar to get us drinks, and she -” he paused, almost smiled as though he couldn’t quite believe it, “she, uh, she met her soulmate.”</p><p>Alexander stared at him for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the casualness in the tone John spoke with, trying to pick apart the facts, get each puzzle piece laid the right way up; “okay sure, but how do you meet someone once and suddenly realise you’re soulmates?”</p><p>“Because she has a tattoo of a pendant on the back of her hand – like a locket on the end of a necklace or something – and he recognised it - apparently it was his grandmas, anyway, his name is Alfred, her soulmate, and he asked if he could kiss it, and, well…” John trailed off.</p><p>“Oh my <i>god</i>,” Alexander’s head was reeling, “what are the chances?”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it wasn’t enough, “I know how much you cared about her. <i>Care</i> about her,” he corrected himself quickly. </p><p>John nodded, looking at him. “Yeah, well. We always knew it could happen eventually.”</p><p>“What are you going to do?”</p><p>Alexander was thinking what <i>he</i> would do, if he was in this situation. Probably be miserable, probably wallow in it, let it drag him down. But John had always been stronger than he had, always had more courage. And he didn’t even <i>have</i> to think about it, Alexander reminded himself, pushing all Thomas related thoughts to the furthest corner of his mind, because he <i>wasn’t</i> in this situation. </p><p>Even though <i>Thomas loved someone</i>, who wasn’t him, and he didn’t care, not one bit.</p><p>John opened his mouth to reply when there was a soft tap on the door before it opened and Eliza poked her head around.</p><p>“Oh!” She said, “I thought I might find you two here.”</p><p>“Eliza,” Alexander almost sighed in relief, “Eliza, we need you.”</p><p>“What is it?” she frowned, coming to sit beside him on the bed, giving John a once over, and, before either of them could say anything, her frown clearing into concern, said, with some kind of feminine intuition Alexander could never hope to replicate; “Oh. It’s happened, hasn’t it?’</p><p>When John nodded she reached out and placed a gentle hand on his knee. “So, what now?”</p><p>“Well, we talked about it,” John looked a little uncomfortable, “and, uh, she said she would stay with me, if that was what I wanted.”</p><p>“What, like, give up her soulmate?” Alexander asked at the same time Eliza said, “and <i>is</i> that what you want?” - fighting to keep the incredulity out of his voice and knowing he failed by the look of reproach Eliza threw at him.</p><p>“That’s very kind of her,” Eliza said, as though in an attempt to correct his outburst, “more than kind, really.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I told no, obviously, not to be stupid. He’s her soulmate – <i>that’s</i> who she should be with. Besides, I’m not going to let her die just so we can keep dating.”</p><p>“You’ll love other people,” Alexander said briskly, nodding, and Eliza rounded on him, eyebrows raised in a good imitation of Angelica.</p><p>“Alexander, you are <i>not</i> helping -”</p><p>“No, he’s right,” John cut in, “I will. Besides, we both knew the consequences, knew what we were getting ourselves into when we started dating.”</p><p>Eliza nodded slowly, watching him. “Still…that doesn’t make it any easier.”</p><p>“Thanks,” John said bluntly, “I hadn’t realised that-”</p><p>“Sorry,” Eliza said hurriedly, drawing her hand back as though stung, “I didn’t mean-”</p><p>“So who is he?” Alexander asked, because Eliza didn’t deserve to be snapped at regardless of how terrible John was feeling.</p><p>He shrugged, scrunching his nose a little. “He goes to Duke.”</p><p>“Shit,” Alexander raised his eyebrows, “Louise did well then.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John smiled a little, “yeah, she deserves to.”</p><p> </p><p>Term started and the week went by like normal. But despite whatever carefree tone John used when he professed that he was <i>fine, totally fine</i>, Alexander could tell he was hurting.</p><p>He wrote Anna a letter, as promised, keeping his phrases simple enough for her to understand but including words she might not have come across yet, because vocabulary was important when learning a language, and this <i>was</i> for practice - so she could speak Spanish with someone and not because he was being pathetic and <i>missed her</i>. </p><p>He got back into the routine of late nights at the library, lunches that consisted of cold, watery coffee, afternoons by the lake, arguing with his Professors about anything he possibly could simply to pull a little more information out of them, and the only surprise was walking into his debating practical with Thomas, arguing lightly over whether or not it was appropriate to simply ask someone you’d just met if you could kiss one of their tattoos – Alexander was of the mind that Louise’s soulmate, Albert or Allen or <i>whatever</i>, was an absolute dick, regardless of what John thought, and that it was all <i>his</i> fault that John was upset, which, therefore, diagnosed and fully explained the <i>being a dick</i> quality – Thomas thought it was perfectly reasonable, which Alexander didn’t <i>get</i>, even though; “Alex, our literal point in life is to find our soulmate, or die, how can you justify it being <i>unreasonable</i> to say, oh hey, I actually recognise that tattoo, do you mind if I just see, just make sure -” </p><p>Alexander scoffed, rolled his eyes; “yeah, in other words; <i>why don’t I go ahead and ruin someone else’s chance at happiness just so I can live beyond thirty</i>-” </p><p>“Wouldn’t it be easier,” Thomas snapped, right as they’d stepped through their classroom door, “if we all just kissed a tattoo of every person we met? Then we’d just <i>know</i> right from the get-go and we wouldn’t be in any fucking <i>mess</i> -”   </p><p>“What, <i>everyone</i> you meet, like your greeting to me would be to grab my wrist and kiss it?” </p><p>“Well, maybe I <i>should’ve</i>,” Thomas was angry again, brutal and biting; “would’ve made everything a whole lot fucking <i>easier</i>-” </p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes, confused, again, for the hundredth time now because <i>what</i> and was about to grit out, “get <i>over</i> yourself,” when their Professor had hissed at them to be quiet, and then told the class they would now be debating against the partners they had previously been debating alongside for the first half of the semester. </p><p>“So, you will still be, in essence, partners. Last term you should have fallen into a good routine, learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses – it is now up to you to learn how to exploit those traits. Law extends past the realms of your own argument; you have to learn to read people, to judge subtle qualities to use to your advantage. Converse with your partner over each question I give you, discuss the points for both sides of the case together – so that your debate will begin on an even footing, and your success will be more reliant on <i>how</i> you argue,” his eyes flicked, briefly, to Alexander, “not <i>what</i> you argue.”</p><p>“This is brilliant,” Alexander gushed as they left, previous argument forgotten, “I get to yell at you for a <i>grade!</i>”</p><p>“Hah,” Thomas looked significantly less enthusiastic, “forgive me if I’m not thrilled at the prospect.”</p><p> </p><p>It was midway through the next week when they heard the announcement; Alexander had his poetry class with Eliza and Thomas that morning, so he was at breakfast, for once, letting Thomas butter him a slice of toast and listening to Eliza explain the many reasons why her father was being even more of an asshole than usual – apparently something had happened over the break, which Eliza refused to detail but was <i>fuming</i> over, and Alexander had entirely given up asking her <i>what the fuck</i>, because he was getting nowhere – when a Professor Alexander had never been taught by, and so didn’t recognise, stepped up onto one of the benches, waving his arms for silence and attracting a few giggles and a lot of confused stares.</p><p>“Huh?” Thomas muttered, pulling a jug of coffee out of Alexander’s hands as he made to pour himself a third cup, “the fuck is happening?”</p><p>“My apologies for disturbing your morning,” the Professor called, “however we wanted to catch as many of you as possible.”</p><p>They both turned to Eliza, who shot them a perplexed look as though to say, <i>why should I know?</i></p><p>“As you may be aware, Princeton holds many charity events and fundraisers, especially around now as we near the festive season, and this year we are holding a Yule Ball in order to raise funds to open a new section of the university dedicated to research.</p><p>There will, of course, be flyers around the campus with more details. However, I want to stress,” the Professor paused delicately, eyes flicking around the hall, “that it is the, ah, expectation that you attend, and -”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander muttered, turning to the other two, and rolling his eyes, “so <i>that’s</i> why they’re telling us now. ‘Here’s an optional event that isn’t optional at all, in fact, hint hint, they’ll be consequences if you don’t go’.”</p><p>“I’m sure that wasn’t what he was saying,” Eliza said, a little reproachfully, as the chatter started back up, “I don’t think -”</p><p>“Okay, but why else would they announce it, rather than just advertising it on the news boards like they usually do.”</p><p>“He kind of has a point,” Thomas nodded, and Eliza threw up her hands.</p><p>“Oh, that’s right, side with him, wow.”</p><p>Alexander grinned, turning to Thomas, “so you <i>do</i> know how to be nice -”</p><p>“On occasion. Still,” he added, “they may as well not even bother with the Ball at all, and just add an extra thousand to our fees.”</p><p>“Well, don’t mock it yet,” Eliza said, “it may be good.”</p><p>“Blah, blah,” Alexander yawned, making Thomas grin, and stretched for the coffee jug that had been placed outside of his reach, “<i>boring</i>.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Eliza was smiling a little, “watch everyone make it into the biggest scandal <i>ever</i>.”</p><p>“Delicious,” Alexander pouted, “tell me when it starts.”</p><p>“God,” Eliza said in exasperation, turning to Thomas, “how do you <i>deal</i> with this in the morning?”</p><p>Thomas snorted; “don’t piss it off with not-so-subtle ways of wrangling more money.”</p><p>“It?” Alexander narrowed his eyes, “<i>it?</i>”</p><p>“Sorry,” Thomas laughed, “urchin. Street rat.”</p><p>“<i>Pendejo</i>.” Alexander told him, <i>“idiota grosero”</i> smiling because Thomas <i>was</i> stupid, but unfortunately it was rather endearing, though Alexander would never tell him <i>that</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is from Homer's Iliad. </p><p>as always, if you have a spare moment, please consider leaving a comment - you know I love them 💛</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. there is nothing permanent except change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a sense of unease, the taste of freedom, and the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so I'm sorry for yawning gap between updates; basically I just have a bunch of neuro electives this semester and I'm comically bad at chem and I have no excuses because I literally chose the degree, but still. Fuck. ANyway I've had to push Alex/Thomas related scenarios out of my mind for a while and I hope you understand. </p><p>so basically this was meant to be 4k and turned into 13k that somehow still didn't include promised Alex-waking-up scene - so that's postponed to next chapter, I'm sorry it just wasn't working here and I didn't have the energy to make this any longer than it already is. Also I'm aware that some people are getting genuinely pissed with Alex and I know I'm dragging his obliviousness out more than necessary but I'm having fun writing it so please don't feel obliged to continue reading if he's getting on your nerves :) </p><p>also this whole thing is a bit of a whacko ramble, like I rattle on unnecessarily about Plato for literally 1k - and my self-promt for this was 'have you not heard of Dante, bitch' and the fact that I went with it should tell you exactly how bad this is and anyway I'm so sorry.</p><p>Thank you so, so much for all your love last chapter and please be patient with this I know it's a shit-show ahh</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As it turns out, Eliza was right: it <i>was</i> a scandal. Actually, it was better than Alexander had ever imagined.</p><p>And also far worse.</p><p>Collectively it seems, the whole of Princeton University had decided that if they were forced to pay for any kind of ball, they were going to try their hardest to ensure the professors wholeheartedly regretted ever thinking they could exploit their already scant savings and remain unscathed. </p><p>It began when someone, a second year boy Alexander didn’t know, turned around in his seat in the middle of a crowded lecture, interrupting the professor, and, loudly; ‘hey! Hannah! Wanna go to the ball with me?”</p><p>Amid giggles and the professor’s admonishments, Hannah, three rows back had grinned: “sure, asshole!”</p><p>Under the guise of being a rightly deserved retribution for their professors; it had turned into a competition of sorts to out-do every previous proposal: classes were interrupted, sonnets were recited in hallways, doves were let loose in the great hall, and, once, a professor’s office decorated in the middle of the night from top to bottom with roughly cut paper hearts and an anonymous declaration of true and undying love plastered across the walls with glitter – the culprit of which was still being sort after. (Alexander strongly suspected Lafayette, though he denied all allegations.)</p><p>The thing was, even though it was all very funny; welcome entertainment he would normally have relished in - because a University that charged any kind of astronomically high attendance fee akin to the one he paid every semester didn’t have the fucking right to take <i>more</i> money just for the sake of it, especially from people who didn’t have money to spare in the first place, and it was just rude, frankly - but though the rest of the students seemed more relaxed than normal, bouts of laughter frequently heard in the corridors amid a general air of conviviality, Alexander felt his chest constricting a little tighter each day around a constant knot of nervousness and unease he couldn’t seem to shake. The feeling only grew steadily bigger as the week wore on, spilling out of his chest and oozing throughout his whole body. </p><p>And he knew the reason. Knew <i>exactly</i> what was the cause of that little anxious knot that had him teetering into the realms of uncertainty - but he also knew that if he acknowledged it then it would become very, very real; then he would have to <i>deal</i> with it and he wasn’t sure he knew how. So he was disguising it, covering it with excuses; layering mattresses on top of a single pea, which still, despite their thickness, failed to entirely flatten out the tiny bump; and he was the prince, and he was becoming bruised and perhaps a little broken.</p><p>But, still: excuses, excuses, and it was almost too easy to convince himself because there were so many steadily accumulating things, somehow in the span of a few weeks everything had switched from being fine to being totally <i>wrong</i>, so much so that he barely even felt like he was making anything up just for the sake of <i>not thinking about it.</i></p><p> </p><p>His first excuse was his tattoos. Although Alexander wasn’t even sure he wanted to think about <i>those,</i> either - they seemed to be far too closely related to the thing he was <i>not thinking about.</i> But they were becoming a problem he couldn’t really ignore; appearing more regularly than ever - it felt as though in the past two weeks he’d discovered more new designs on him than in the rest of his life put together.</p><p>It was worrying for many reasons, but mainly because he had never quite been able to dispel the thought that equated soulmate tattoos with some kind of terrible fate. He had been six years old when he discovered his first tattoo. </p><p>The sun had been particularly bright that morning, shining through the patchwork curtains his mamá had made from scraps of material; the warmth colouring the insides of his eyelids red. Scrambling into a tee-shirt, he’d looked down and there it was on the left side of his chest over his rib cage; a small, upright piano. </p><p><i>“Mamá, mamá,”</i> he’d called excitedly, running through their house and out into the garden where she was kneeling in the small vegetable patch, weeding between the stones of the path. <i>“Mira, tengo un piano en mi pecho,” - look, I have a piano on my chest.</i> </p><p><i>“Ah, qué emocionante, amor, déjame ver,” - how exciting, my love, let me see,</i> she looked up, smiling at him, pulling off her gardening gloves and reaching out to run a soft finger over the tiny keys. She was quiet for a moment, then said; <i>“conocerás a tu alma gemela porque cuando besen tu tatuaje, se volverá colorido,” - you will know your soulmate because when they kiss your tattoos, it will become colourful.</i> </p><p>At six years old, the idea of soulmates seemed big and hard to grasp; his mind trying desperately to reduce the idea into something tangible, something he could understand. There were so many <i>what ifs,</i> so many <i>problems.</i> </p><p>
  <i>“Pero…pero qué pasa si nunca los encuentro,” - what if I never meet them?</i>
</p><p><i>“Entonces…”</i> she smiled a little sadly, <i>“entonces nunca los conocerás. Tu vida no tiene que ser larga para que sea buena, amor,” - then you never meet them. Your life doesn’t have to be long for it to be good, love.</i> </p><p>
  <i>“Es papá tu alma gemela,” - is papá your soulmate?</i>
</p><p>She hesitated. <i>“Si…el es.”</i> </p><p>
  <i>“Entonces, por qué nunca está aquí y por qué es malo contigo,” - then why is he never here, and why is he mean to you?</i>
</p><p><i>“Almas gemelas no significa el paraíso,” - soulmates don’t mean paradise,</i> she looked down, pulling her gloves back on before holding his gaze, <i>“el mundo sigue lleno de gente mala, mi amor,” - the world is still full of bad people, my love.</i> </p><p>He’d been scared then, suddenly wanting to scratch the piano off him, wanting to peel off his skin layer by layer until it was as smooth and unblemished as it had been before. <i>“Mi alma gemela será mala, como papá,” - will my soulmate be bad, like papá?</i> </p><p><i>“No, amor,”</i> she said quickly, shaking her head in earnest, as though it was imperative he believed her; <i>“no. Tu alma gemela será buena y amable, porque eso es lo que te mereces, si,” - your soulmate will be good and kind, because that is what you deserve.</i></p><p>He’d nodded, pulled on his shirt and sat down beside her on the path, squeezing his little fingers into the smaller cracks between the stones and pulling out short tufts of dandelions, but he’d never, no matter how hard he tried, been able to truly believe her.  </p><p>How could he, if his mother, the best person he knew - who deserved everything good in the world, if that was who she had been given; someone who knew only how to deliver pain - why should he deserve anything better?</p><p>More tattoos had appeared slowly over the years, and he learnt to look forward to a new one - novelty of any kind always sparks an inherent excitement, and he always liked to try and decipher what it meant, ponder what it was that his soulmate had lost, because mysteries are always a little thrilling. So he tried to listen to his mother’s voice rather than the one in his head, which told him he deserved nothing, absolutely nothing, told himself instead that his soulmate would be whoever they would be; they would love him or they wouldn’t, they would be kind or cruel. But despite this he decided he much preferred it when the appearance of his tattoos had been infrequent - even though he had spent his whole life hoping for the opposite - because infrequent tattoos meant a life without much loss, meant his soulmate was happy, privileged; someone who deserved better than him. </p><p>And isn’t that easier to believe? When you’ve been raised watching pain delivered without mercy, when you’ve grown up expecting the worst, because the worst is what always happens, isn’t it easier, <i>safer,</i> even, to hope that things <i>won’t</i> turn out, that there <i>wouldn’t</i> be a happy ending, because then you’d never be disappointed, because there is comfort in routine, and because it is so much simpler to know you deserve nothing rather than to hope, or perhaps dream that you deserve <i>something.</i> </p><p>It was conflicting, something he struggled with, didn’t even really understand <i>what</i> he thought about the whole thing because his mind was in two halves; split down the middle of <i>I want to meet them</i> and <i>I don’t,</i> the two dichotomies ping-ponging against the sides of his brain; rattling around like trapped flies in a jar and he <i>just didn’t know what he wanted.</i> So even though he always scoffed at the idea whenever it was mentioned, <i>a soulmate, pft, who needs that, I’ll just die at thirty and then I’ll still look pretty in my coffin</i> - half believed himself even, simultaneously stuck on <i>you don’t deserve that kind of happiness,</i> and <i>everything else has been taken from you, they will be too,</i> knew he would never be enough for them, whoever they were, that they were better off <i>not</i> meeting him because he was, well, <i>him</i> - and, paradoxically, in the same breath, maybe, he would, <i>could</i> be enough. To grow old with someone is <i>such</i> a sweet dream to hold dear - and so the <i>never going to happen</i> and <i>but what if it does</i> fought a constant, incongruous battle within him. </p><p>A happy, content, lucky soulmate was someone who would never want him, and Alexander was grateful for that. That fit with what he had come to expect, that was something he could <i>understand.</i> And it had all seemed so far away, so unlikely despite being all around him, something everyone worried and talked about almost daily, still it had always felt like something he would never actually have to <i>deal</i> with. But a soulmate who, suddenly out of nothing was losing things every other day; who was clearly <i>not</i> happy, was probably <i>suffering</i> - that, well, that was someone who maybe <i>would</i> want someone like him, because one perfect and one broken soul would never fit together, but two wretched, hurting, desperate people? That made <i>sense,</i> and it terrified him. </p><p>So now, when before he’d discover a new tattoo and feel a thrum of excitement, now he would look down at his arm, or ankle, or the inside of his thigh and the little knot inside him would wrench tighter, his stomach sinking because <i>no, oh no.</i> And he was worried about his soulmate - of course he was; they were his <i>soulmate</i> after all - and clearly something was extremely wrong; were they dying? Were they sick, or being abandoned, or terribly hurt? Either way, <i>something</i> was happening - at the very least they were having some sort of slow, progressive breakdown, because no one could go from losing something every few years to losing something every other day and be perfectly fucking fine. </p><p>But that was another thing; because now tattoos seemed to blur the line between a soulmate and <i>the thing he was definitely not, under any circumstances, thinking about</i> - the line between the thought of a soulmate and wanting to be with a certain <i>someone</i> becoming dangerously, <i>perilously</i> thin. If he hadn’t been all too enamoured with the idea of a soulmate <i>before,</i> now it filled him with something close to dread - pulling that knot so securely taut it felt like his very organs were twisting into an unpickable gnob inside of him, pretzelling ever tighter whenever he looked down and saw, <i>christ, another.</i> </p><p>Last week, just before term had gone back – when Thomas had asked <i>did you get another one,</i> almost as if he had <i>known</i> – there it was, small and dainty, an outline of two entwined hands, on the inside of his left wrist. Or, a few days later, mid way through a conversation with John one morning, tugging on jeans and catching sight of himself in the mirror, there on his bicep: a small copy of Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’ – too small for him to read the title so he only recognised it because he knew the cover so well; the slightly kaleidoscopic rings, which, if you stared at them for long enough, seemed to spiral inwards of their own accord. Or, during a rather boring lecture, ‘Constitutional Essays’, that he shared with Angelica, and that he hadn’t even bothered to take notes for because he was having trouble concentrating on a lot of things lately – and so was doodling absently on the corner of his page and suddenly his pen had jerked a harsh line through his little drawing of Nina, because on his wrist, in the small dip that appeared if he moved his thumb a certain way, was a thin outline of a crescent moon.</p><p> </p><p>Then there was the second excuse: the fact that something was definitely, <i>unmistakably</i> up with Eliza. Eliza, who was normally so easy going, so forgiving; who refused to get stuck on people’s faults, who was always determined to see the best in people. Who, unlike her sister, even though they both suffered equally, usually only rolled her eyes a little at her parent’s strict and sometimes unforgiving demands; <i>Eliza what you wish to study is irrelevant; Eliza, opening an orphanage is no profession for a woman of your standing, Eliza, how dare you court him, what were you thinking</i> – and it was usually Angelica who snapped, who bit back, who lashed out. But, sitting with the two of them in a corner of the library last Saturday, supposedly working on an essay for ‘Progressive Human Rights’ and really just gossiping with Angelica about the week’s oohs and ahhs, Angelica had scoffed at the latest match her father had attempted to set her up with; grumbled,</p><p>“God, what a fucking asshole, he thinks he can shove people down my throat and I’d thank him for it? -”</p><p>And Alexander had turned to Eliza, a smile already tugging at his lips, because this was usually the point where she’d cut in with a reproachful frown, with a; <i>hey, he’s only doing what he thinks is best for you,</i> but instead she’d pursed her lips, her eyes hardening a little, and; “I <i>hate</i> it when he does that, like we’re his property, as though we don’t have lives of our own.”</p><p>“Did something happen?” he’d questioned, trying to make it sound light and breezy and probably failing. </p><p>“No, of course not,” Eliza said, cutting her eyes back down to her work a little too quickly, and Alexander stayed silent for a second before realising that was her way of closing the conversation down completely and so mirrored her, bending his head as though it meant nothing to him either way, mindlessly scrawled out another sentence on <i>fairness</i> and <i>equity</i> - but hurt because something clearly <i>had</i> happened, and because Eliza usually confided in him.</p><p> </p><p>He was still brooding over it as they walked back to their dorms a while later, silent and thoughtful when Eliza had nudged him, and; “Alex, what are we going to do about John?”</p><p>And right there was the third excuse – the increasingly obvious fact that John was evidently not over Louise, regardless of what he said, was beating himself up over it even though he had known from the start that this might happen. Alexander missed his usual buoyancy, his ever-present smile, worried because John was clearly still in love with someone who wasn’t his soulmate – and didn’t seem any more interested in looking for his <i>actual</i> soulmate than Alexander was.</p><p>“Huh?” Alexander murmured distractedly, stalling even though he knew exactly what Eliza meant, and was only trying to avoid saying <i>I have no fucking clue</i> with the small, rather desperate hope than she had formed a better plan of action than he had. </p><p>Clearly not, however, because; “well, he’s not doing too good, is he?”</p><p>“No,” Alexander agreed reluctantly, letting Eliza slip an arm through his and slowing his steps a little, because if they were going to have this conversation he’d rather have it here instead of right outside his dorm room where John would be inside and could listen in on everything they said.</p><p>They were quiet for a minute, both stewing in the knowledge that this problem might be outside the realms of what they had control over, before Eliza murmured, her voice soft and hesitant; “I’m worried about him.”</p><p>“I know,” Alexander sighed, “but what can we do? We can’t force him to get over Louise.”</p><p>“I wasn’t saying that,” Eliza dropped his arm to push open the door of the stairwell. “But maybe...you could talk to him?”</p><p>“And say what?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” She waved her hand, a little exasperated, “just - just be there for him?”</p><p>“I’m pretty sure that would do more harm than good,” Alexander told her, truthfully, “you know I’m terrible at those types of things.”</p><p>“Yes,” she agreed, “but you don’t have to be good at it.” </p><p>Catching him raising his eyebrows in scepticism, she sighed. “Alex, believe it or not, people need you just as much as you need them. John doesn’t want me or Laf or anyone else right now. You’re his best friend. When you’ve known someone as long as you two have known each other, you don’t need to give a lot of fancy advice in order to be a comfort. Just - I don’t know, give him a hug or something.”</p><p>“Okay,” he said, even though he doubted he’d actually be able to do anything.</p><p>When he pushed open the door to their room, John was curled up at the end of his bed reading a battered copy 1984 under the orange glow of the lamp that usually sat on their desk, and which he’d dragged over to the floor by his bed, the cord stretched and the plug almost pulled out of its socket.</p><p>“That’s the most depressing fucking book you could have picked,” Alexander told him bluntly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes.</p><p>John looked up, grinning; “so of course <i>you’ve</i> read it,” and scoffed when Alexander rolled his eyes, because, <i>obviously.</i> He didn’t bat an eye when Alexander curled up next to him, dragging the blanket from his own bed over them both; simply burrowed underneath Alexander’s arm to lay his cheek against his chest, dropping the book on his lap and muttering; “go on, read it to me then,” - so maybe something up with Eliza, but at least she was still right about everything, so that was one thing that hadn’t changed at least. </p><p> </p><p>It was raining when Alexander woke the next morning, the sky ominous and a heavy, almost charcoal grey.</p><p>“What’s that look for?” John asked him when he pushed open the door after returning from a shower, draping his towel on the hook behind it and taking a quick glance at Alexander’s expression as he sat crossed legged on his bed, books in his lap. “You love the rain.”</p><p>It was true; he did. Except, five minutes before, he had been pulling on his socks, and there on the soft lines of his metatarsals was a tattoo. <i>Another</i> tattoo. Specifically, the fourth this week: a small round button. His heart had sunk a little, his chest clenching a little tighter around the now familiar knot, and the rain had only pattered out his worries.</p><p>He had decided he shouldn’t tell anyone about the tattoos; Thomas had become so irritated with him the last time he’d mentioned a new one, and everyone else had their own problems to be dealing with, so he was keeping his mouth tightly shut. He turned away from the window, gave John a thin-lipped smile he didn’t really feel and said; “sorry, just thinking,” smiling a little wider, and hopefully more convincingly when John continued to frown.</p><p>He’d been going to breakfast recently for the singular, rather pathetic incentive that Thomas had been tired of late, and, for some reason, had fallen into a habit of resting his head on Alexander’s shoulder, and, well, he could deny <i>the thing he wasn’t thinking about</i> all he wanted, but he would be stupid to pass up <i>that</i> kind of chance; even if the undeniable warmth that settled through him every time he’d feel Thomas’ curls tickling a little against his cheek left the strange, achy residue of longing inside him.</p><p>Alexander was nursing his second cup of coffee, (without Thomas, there was no-one to remind him that coffee didn’t actually count as a proper meal,) trying not to smile as John half-heartedly attempted to dissuade Lafayette from dramatically offering his undying affection – on bended knee – to his ‘French Literature’ professor, and request that she save him a dance at the ball, when Thomas slipped onto the bench beside him.</p><p>“That’s a nice cardigan,” Alexander told him, tuning immediately out of the conversation. It was, and something he’d never seen Thomas wear before; a light, faded magenta, the wool soft and well-worn with a few threads hanging loose at the sleeves, remarkably similar to his own old green cardigan that he wore pretty much everywhere. A few of the buttons had come loose and around the neck was a little border of embroidered wildflowers.</p><p>“Thanks.” Thomas tugged self-consciously at it for a second, then huffed out a small laugh. “Would you think I was completely pathetic if I told you it was Jane’s?”</p><p>“No.” Alexander frowned, “why, is it?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Well, it suits you,” he said firmly, turning to pull the coffee jug back towards him because he clearly wasn’t properly awake if he was feeling close to tears at seven-thirty in the morning.</p><p>“Mum’s been clearing out her things,” Thomas said, in a would-be casual voice, pushing his own mug across the table for Alexander to fill, “and I had asked her to keep some things for me. Anyway, I got a box the other day in the mail – I don’t know why she couldn’t have just left it in my room for when I go home at Christmas, but whatever.”</p><p>“Did you go through it?”</p><p>“No,” Thomas grimaced a little, “don’t really know if I can yet. I thought maybe if I did it slowly, looked at one item at a time? Anyway, I unwrapped the first thing this morning, and it was this,” he looked down at the cardigan, rolling a loose thread between his fingers, “and... I - I didn’t want to leave it up in my room all by itself. Like,” he hurried on quickly, cheeks darkening a little, “it’s all cold and grey today and I sort of felt like I was leaving <i>her</i> up there on her own, not just clothes, so…” he trailed off. “I know it’s stupid.”</p><p>“It’s not stupid,” Alexander told him, hesitated a second then inched his hand marginally to the left, let the backs of his fingers brush against Thomas’, determinedly didn’t look up even though he wasn’t even sure that Thomas was looking at him, but felt somehow that Thomas’ gaze, like his own, was trained on their hands, almost but not quite entwined. Alexander was suddenly very aware of how close they were - shoulders touching, Thomas’ thigh inches from his own; he could feel the places where Thomas’s fingers were brushing against his as though they burned: the soft skin of his knuckles, calloused underside of his index finger from where he had spent hours gripping pens, too tightly and for too long. </p><p>Alexander swallowed, forced himself to look up, and he had been right; Thomas <i>was</i> looking down, his face turned slightly towards him, close enough that if Alexander leant forwards a centimetre he could press their foreheads together. He gave himself a second, only a second, letting his gaze flit over Thomas’ face; the little clench of his jaw, the soft fan of his eyelashes. He had a line of freckles along his cheek, three, from his jaw to his cheekbone – like Orion’s belt. Alexander wondered what Thomas would do if he pressed his lips to each of those freckles in turn, the idea seeming as distant and unattainable as reaching up on tiptoe to kiss the stars in the night sky; would his breaths hitch a little, would his eyes flutter closed, would he feel the places Alexander’s lips had touched on his cheek burn a little, like how Alexander could feel his fingers against his own?</p><p>“Why do you think I carry around my mamá’s poetry book, <i>amor?</i>” he murmured, a little thickly, eyes trained on Thomas’ cheek.</p><p>“Really?” Thomas looked up, gaze falling almost guiltily to Alexander’s lips, as though he couldn’t quiet help himself, and Alexander watched his throat move around a swallow before; “you don’t -”</p><p>“Ahem,” Lafayette coughed loudly, <i>pointedly,</i> and they both jumped, Alexander jerking his hand away from Thomas’ and managing to spill his coffee in the same instant; his hand now burning for an entirely different reason. He glanced up reproachfully at Lafayette who was glaring at them both, a single eyebrow raised, and muttered a vehement; <i>“vete a la mierda, pequeña mierda” – fuck you, you little shit.</i></p><p><i>“Pour l’amour de Dieu, baise-le déjà,”</i> Lafayette ground out, glaring at Thomas, who gave him the finger and a scowl. “Since you both <i>clearly</i> had other things to discuss, you missed my very important, life-or-death question: should I or should I not purchase a bouquet for Professor D’Amboise?”</p><p>Alexander privately agreed with Thomas when he said, pushing himself up from the table, “if that’s your idea of life-or-death, I really can’t help you,” but told Lafayette all the same; “definitely get the bouquet. Completes the whole pretty picture, you know?”</p><p><i>“Merci beaucoup mon cher,</i> at least there is <i>someone</i> who understands my distress,” he said, before kissing John quickly on the cheek and hurrying after Thomas, probably to explain just exactly how the question <i>was,</i> in fact, life-or-death, and Alexander frowned before following them, wondering if this was a new development or if Lafayette and John had always been like that and he just hadn’t noticed, which, to be honest, was more than likely. He didn’t have time to consider the possibility for long, however, because Thomas was turning around, waving a hand to cut Lafayette off, and, a little exasperated; “<i>please</i> tell him for me to buy himself some dignity along with the flowers.”</p><p> </p><p>The lecture hall was buzzing as they entered, and Alexander glanced around at the gleeful faces then groaned on principal. “Oh, god, they’ve been planning something else, haven’t they?”</p><p>“You did not hear?” Lafayette asked, with a hint of glee, breaking off his bitching – “<i>peut-être que la vraie raison pour laquelle vous êtes amer est que vous ne pouvez pas lui donner de fleurs</i>” – and turning around to face him, “Alexander, do you live under a rock? People have been talking about this all morning.”</p><p>“They have?”</p><p>“<i>Ah, mon cher,</i> I love you, but you really are too oblivious sometimes,” Lafayette sighed a little, then yanked him back by his collar when he made to start climbing the stairs to their usual seats towards the back of the theatre.</p><p>“<i>Qu'est-ce qui te prend,</i> where are you going? Do you not want to see?”</p><p>Alexander huffed a little but obligingly followed Lafayette as he inched his way through the second row of seats, grumbling; “<i>this</i> close to the front? So I guess no-one’s going to bother telling what’s gonna happen?”</p><p>“<i>Non,</i>” Lafayette said primly with a self-satisfied smile, sitting down so abruptly Alexander almost tripped over him, flailing a little because he’d been paying more attention to everyone around them that watching his feet, feeling spitefully annoyed because they were all so <i>cheerful</i>, then berating himself for being the bitterest person alive, and only steading when he felt Thomas’ strong fingers grip his elbow and hold him still.</p><p>“Well, fuck you very much,” he grouched, taking the seat next to Lafayette and turning to give him a rightly deserved glare.</p><p>Lafayette grinned. “Ah, do not scrunch your nose like that, you will mess up your pretty face. I promise, it will be very entertaining -”</p><p>Thomas snorted, leaning around Alexander, ignoring his muttered; “oh, very nice of you to join in,” instead raising his eyebrows incredulously at Lafayette; “<i>divertissante?</i> no, he’ll <i>hate</i> it -”</p><p>“I love how you sound so happy about that,” Alexander mumbled, irritated, “have my best interests at heart, very nice to hear.”</p><p>“- are you kidding?” Thomas continued, talking over him, “heaven forbid, someone wasting his time when he could be taking <i>notes.</i>”</p><p>“Ah, yes, I am so sorry,” Lafayette patted his cheek, only grinning wider when Alexander batted his hand away, dropping his voice a little as their professor stepped up to the lectern, “I always forget your idea of <i>fun</i> is what everyone else would journey to hell for -”</p><p>“<i>Pues, entonces, vete a la mierda,</i>” Alexander huffed, pulling a book out of his bag and rooting around in it to find a pen.</p><p>“He said, ‘fuck you,’ in case you missed the sentiment,” Thomas supplied helpfully, a small smirk playing across his lips as he settled down into his seat, resting his head on the back of his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.</p><p>“First of all,” Alexander hissed, as their professor started talking, “fuck <i>you,</i> second, since when have you understood Spanish, thirdly, fuck you, and forth, oh, I see you’re above taking notes now?  And also, um, oh yes, <i>fuck you.</i>”</p><p>Thomas laughed, his head tipping back a little over the edge of the seat, and even though he quickly stifled it, biting the corner of his lip in order to swallow the sound when the professor’s eyes flicked over them briefly, Alexander felt something swoop within him, the knot loosening marginally. Thomas’ laugh, something that, up until recently, he hadn’t given much thought simply because it was always there, seemed like it was Thomas’ instinctual reaction to anything and everything, but something that was, of late, becoming increasingly infrequent. Sometimes Alexander would be grumbling about this or that, and would stop midway through a sentence for the sole reason that Thomas had <i>laughed,</i> surprising him because he’d almost forgotten how good it sounded, because <i>oh,</i> because he his heartbeat would stutter a little and he’d realise that it had been three days since he’d last heard it. </p><p>So it was becoming an unconscious habit, doing little things he knew would glean a smile from Thomas, at least - more, if he was lucky, because he <i>missed</i> Thomas’ laugh, and because he knew Thomas was still keenly feeling Jane’s loss, even though it was almost a month ago - for time cleaned a wound but hardly ever healed it. Now Thomas’ laughter signalled some small, probably selfish stab of relief through him, and he allowed himself to breath a little easier for a while because <i>if he’s laughing then he must be okay, even a little bit,</i> tinted with faint, barely there but undeniable pride, because <i>I did that, he’s hurting but I made him forget that, even if only for a second.</i></p><p>Alexander forgot he was supposed to be annoyed with the both of them, a small, unstoppable smile inching its way across his lips as he watched Thomas shake his head; “okay, one, no fuck <i>you,</i> two, you say it so often how could I <i>not</i> remember it by now, and three,” he scoffed, grinning when Alexander rolled his eyes, “eh, I don’t need notes.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, sorry,” Alexander huffed, turning away to hide the fact that he was <i>still</i> smiling, because he was <i>supposed</i> to be feeling annoyed, and he was, he told himself, deep down. “I forgot you can absorb lectures by osmosis -”</p><p>And he missed it – didn’t notice all the shuffling, the distinct undercurrent of anticipation that had settled around the theatre, pausing because Thomas was laughing again, his eyes crinkling a little; the <i>second time in under a minute</i> and it felt like some kind of small but significant miracle. He only realised that something was happening when Lafayette gripped his arm and he glanced around to quip <i>what the fuck,</i> but his words fizzled out into a small huff because a boy in the row in front of them, who Alexander vaguely recognised – was sure they’d shared a compulsory unit on ‘Foundation in Law’ during their first year, and who he was almost ninety per cent certain was called Lucien, had stood, and;</p><p>“Wait!” he called to the general room, voice confident and carrying, raising his hand dramatically, “Professor, there’s something -”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Alexander felt a bit sorry for the professor in spite of himself, watching his eyes widening in alarm, already knowing what Lucien was doing because clearly it had happened <i>too often</i> of late and he was tired of it; "sit down, St. Francis, I will <i>not</i> tolerate interrupt-”</p><p>Someone from up the back booed and the professor’s eyes snapped up to the direction of the voice, his shoulders sinking a little as though resigning himself to an inevitable defeat. Lucien cleared his throat, and Alexander sighed, because clearly no one was going to stop this, snuck a small glance at Thomas, who was watching the scene unfold with a glimmer of amusement behind his eyes, so Alexander settled down in his seat because if it was making Thomas happy then he could stop complaining about it.</p><p>“Professor, I am <i>so</i> sorry,” Lucien was saying, not sounding sorry in the slightest, and then, clearing his throat he turned to the boy next to him, offering his hand, and; “Oliver, my love, my life -”</p><p>“They are soulmates,” Lafayette whispered, leaning forward so Alexander could hear him. </p><p>Oliver, a faint blush rising on his neck, was looking up at Lucien with an exasperated <i>must you really</i> hidden in his expression even as he smiled.</p><p>“- do me the pleasure of accompanying me to the ball?”</p><p>Oliver shook his head, still smiling, but was clearly feeling indulgent because; “but the pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a distinct purr and a sarcastic bat of his eyelashes, letting Lucien take his hand and kiss it. People were cheering clearly thinking it was over, but then the boy who was sitting on the other side of Lucien’s seat stood, opening the lid of a cardboard box he had been holding on his lap and a crowd of butterflies were suddenly everywhere in the air around them, their delicate wings, speckled with orange and black, beating rapidly as though a little delirious with their new-found freedom.</p><p>People gasped, soft little cries of <i>oh, oh!</i> holding out their hands as the butterflies began to disperse throughout the hall, and the professor, who had been pinching the bridge of his nose in begrudging tolerance, suddenly glared at Lucien with newfound displeasure; “St. Francis! How dare you! How do you suppose we are going to catch -”</p><p> </p><p>They were released half an hour early, after the professor had been interrupted for the seventeenth time by a cry of; <i>oh, look! It’s on your arm!</i> – had drawn a line when a butterfly landed at the top of his lectern, as though serving a pretty reminder of the lack of control he had over his students; had snapped his notes shut and, through gritted teeth, <i>“I think that will be all for today,”</i> beckoning Lucien forward with a crooked finger as everyone else started shuffling to their feet.</p><p>“How <i>are</i> they going to catch them all?” Alexander asked of no one in particular, as they inched their way slowly out of the row, his head tilted up to the ceiling where most of the butterflies were now circling. “What if they’re stuck in here for weeks?”</p><p>“Alexander, you worry too much,” Lafayette squeezed his shoulder, “they will figure something out - open a window perhaps, or,” he added, “they will die soon enough, butterflies have a short lifespan, you know -”</p><p>“Don’t!” Alexander turned around to frown at him, “don’t say that!”</p><p>“They’re not going to die,” Thomas called over his shoulder, then, clearly to Lafayette, “<i>arrête de le faire souffrir.</i>”  </p><p>“How did Lucien even catch them in the first place?” Alexander wondered, still unconvinced, talking over Lafayette’s grumbled response.</p><p>“The science labs,” Thomas said with a grin as they entered the corridor, “you’d be surprised what they have in there.”</p><p>“How’d you know?”</p><p>“He told me,” Thomas shrugged.</p><p>“Okay,” Alexander said slowly, having forgotten that Thomas seemed to know <i>everyone</i> in some way or another, “but why are they breeding butterflies?”</p><p>“For experiments,” Lafayette said, smiling sweetly before spinning away in the opposite direction; “<i>au revoir les paysans!</i>”</p><p>“Hey!” Alexander called after him, “what do you mean, <i>experiments?</i>”</p><p>Lafayette turned with a devilish grin, walking backwards for a few paces, slashing the air in front of his throat sharply and, “no!” Alexander gasped, turning to Thomas for confirmation, “they don’t, do they?”</p><p>Thomas rolled his eyes. “Ignore him.”</p><p>“But,” Alexander pressed, his mind unhelpfully supplying him with images of struggling butterflies, trapped under pins and beneath microscopes, their little bodies squashed between probes and their wings dipped in various liquids, “but, what if…”</p><p>“Alex,” Thomas said, turning a little to face him, raising a hand as though to brush his cheek, the sleeve of Jane’s cardigan falling back a little and he stopped short, so suddenly Alexander kept on walking and had to turn back. Thomas’ eyes were fixed on the dip of his own wrist and he groaned a little, glancing up at Alexander with an expression he couldn’t decipher; a strange mix of something between affection and exasperation and perhaps a touch of annoyance.</p><p>“What?” he asked, as Thomas shook his sleeve down again.</p><p>“Alex, for christ’s sake, stop worrying about the butterflies,” Thomas sighed, stepping forward to catch up to him. “You have to stop caring so much about things you have no control over, otherwise you’ll spend your whole life losing things.”</p><p>“I wasn’t worrying,” he lied, “I don’t... but, what if -”</p><p>“Alex, enough,” Thomas said, catching Alexander’s chin with the tip of his finger and Alexander’s eyes snapped towards him. “Enough,” he said again, smiling a little, then, as though to distract him, “you wanna study in the library with me? We have debating later, we should probably go over our points.”</p><p>“I have a class first,” Alexander reminded him, “with John. I’ll meet you there after?”</p><p>“Sure,” Thomas nodded, parting with a wink and a “<i>chao,</i> little urchin.”</p><p>Alexander rolled his eyes, yelled “asshole!” after his retreating figure then hurried off to his next classroom. John was already seated at the back of the room, his smile small and a little wobbly, so Alexander told him the butterfly story, exaggerating it slightly in order to coax a more confident smile out of him. He invented a girl with a butterfly phobia who had run screaming from the lecture hall, breathed a little sigh of relief when John laughed, and wondered when exactly it was that he had started secretly saving all the moments his friends were happy, when it was that those moments had changed from <i>often</i> to <i>occasionally.</i></p><p> </p><p>Afterwards, he found Thomas in the library and they went over their points, Thomas’ shoulder’s growing steadily more hunched and tense over the hour, his replies becoming increasingly curt until Alexander finally asked, timidly, if there was anything wrong.</p><p>“We have debating next,” Thomas told him, as though that would explain everything, his tone brusque and a little biting.</p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander said dubiously, “I thought that was why we were going over these.” He waved the paper containing his argument; messy and full of crossed out words and extra sentences squashed between margins. </p><p>It was their first time debating against each other, and Alexander was feeling a faint thrum of excitement at the very idea; it had been a long time since he’d had a chance to properly argue a case in any of his classes – last semester had consisted of theoretical lectures and tutorials rather than practicals, with only one lesson where they had actually been allowed to participate, and that had only been every other week. The first half of this term they’d been in pairs, so he was always <i>with</i> Thomas rather than against him, which Alexander liked because they were <i>good;</i> because they invariably won. There was nothing particularly thrilling about it all, however, because he <i>knew</i> they were going to win even before their opposition had begun to lay down their points. It never took much effort because everyone was so easy, their arguments so clearly <i>flawed</i> that Alexander could never feel any genuine sense of satisfaction from the victory because it was inevitable – but this afternoon he would be <i>against</i> Thomas.</p><p>Thomas, who he could read so effortlessly - recognise the spark in his eye when he saw a gap in the logic of the opposing speaker, could sense the direction of his argument after the first few sentences, could tell when he was stalling as he tried to mentally coalesce two disparate points together. Alexander knew that finally he was going to be presented with an actual <i>challenge</i> for once because, true; he could speak fast enough to shut anyone up, could rattle on relentlessly for as long as it took for whoever was standing at the opposite end of the table to forget their own damn points out of sheer mind numbing exhaustion, but <i>so could Thomas</i> – different from him, not as scrappy, not as likely to hurtle on into next July like some ever-punishing whirlwind - but the opposite; short, precise and firm with carefully crafted, <i>impenetrable</i> sentences that always left Alexander’s mind stuttering a little, because <i>how.</i> He could never fathom the way Thomas managed to say things using barely any words and <i>still</i> manage leave their opposition fumbling - and he could feel a giddy, almost reckless excitement building inside him at the sheer knowledge that <i>he</i> was going to be on the receiving end of those tight, meticulous, <i>incendiary</i> sentences - but clearly Thomas wasn’t feeling the same, because;</p><p>“I don’t want to do it,” he said, a little morose.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because!” he blurted, then stopped, huffed out a breath, and, a little quieter; “because I have to do it on my own, and -”</p><p>“Oh!” Alexander cut in, understanding, suddenly, “public speaking. It’ll be okay, it’s only a small class -”</p><p>“<i>and,</i>” Thomas continued, “in case you’ve forgotten, we’re up against each other.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“<i>So,</i>” Thomas scoffed, incredulous, waving the paper with their question; ‘Who Could be Considered the Greatest Philosopher’ in Alexander’s face, “<i>so,</i> knowing you, halfway through you’ll pull some guy I’ve never heard of out of your ass, ramble on about him a mile a minute and the only thing I’ll be able to say is ‘who the fuck is that.’”</p><p>“I don’t do that,” Alexander laughed, mainly because it actually <i>did</i> sound like something he was likely to do.</p><p>“Hilarious,” Thomas muttered, not seeming particularly mollified, and, twenty minutes later when they were standing outside their classroom, Alexander glanced over and caught his expression; the little drawn-in pinch between his eyebrows, the way his eyes were flicking restlessly around the corridor as though something in him was afraid to keep still. </p><p>“Hey, <i>pequeño conejo,</i>” Alexander said gently, shifting his books and papers to one arm, so he could reach out tentatively and nudge Thomas’ shoulder, “you’ll get to insult me, it’ll be fun -”</p><p>“Fun!” Thomas repeated, voice weak and higher than usual, letting Alexander drag his hand out from where it had been pressed between his back and the wall, uncurling it gently and running a thumb over the little half moon dents in his palm from where he had been digging his nails into the soft flesh.</p><p>“<i>Todo saldrá bien,</i>” Alexander soothed, bending without thinking to press a small kiss to each of Thomas’ fingers.</p><p>“Hah,” Thomas let out a soft, shaky laugh, “easy for you to say,” then, when Alexander only hummed a little, pressing his lips to each of Thomas’ knuckles, his eyes trained on the movement, voice a little breathless, “Alex, that’s really not helping.”</p><p>“No?” Alexander said, biting back a small grin because Thomas was blushing, a faint red blossoming over his cheeks, and his skin wasn’t so dark that it didn’t show. “What about now?” </p><p>Maybe it was because he could feel the anticipation sparking low in his stomach, because Thomas might hate speaking in front of people but Alexander <i>loved</i> it; swelled with the exhilaration of causing people to scramble for words, the rush of heady self-assurance and something close to power that came from leaving someone stuttering, and just knowing that, despite his fear, Thomas would actually have the gall to <i>bite back</i> was fuelling the expectant tingling within him. Maybe it was making him a little rash, more impulsive than he usually was – riding on the rare high of confidence that comes with knowing you’re good at something; so he took the pad of Thomas’ thumb between his lips and bit down, gentle and a little teasing, just to prove a point, looked up at Thomas through his lashes expecting to find Thomas rolling his eyes, giving him an amused shake of the head, but Thomas was staring down at him, breathing a little shallow, eyes growing impossibly dark, bit out, voice a little grating; “jesus,” and “you and that mouth.”</p><p>Alexander frowned, the little bubble of certainty that had been swelling inside him suddenly deflating rapidly as though punctured, replaced with a tremulous quiver, feeling like he was swaying dangerously even while standing completely still; Thomas pressing fingers to the edge of Alexander’s jaw, slowly pulling the tip of his thumb out of his mouth and ghosting a soft touch over his lips.</p><p>Thomas met his gaze for a second before dropping his hand quickly, as though he had suddenly realised what he was doing, and Alexander followed him into the classroom, knees a little wobbly, wondering how he had gone from being completely sure of everything to decidedly <i>unsure</i> in under thirty seconds.</p><p> </p><p>There was another pair up before them, and Alexander watched Thomas’ leg bouncing uncontrollably under his desk, the knot inside him clenching again at the palpable tension radiating from him. He hated it; how Thomas continuously flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall behind their professor’s desk, watching as the hands inched closer and closer to half past one, when the pair currently debating would be finished and it would mean they were up next, so Alexander leant forward a little on his desk, nudging his elbow against Thomas and, softly so the professor wouldn’t hear, “do you want to start, or shall I?</p><p>“You do it,” Thomas muttered, turning to face him and managing a small grin, “I know you want to.” </p><p>Encouraged, Alexander shrugged; “you never know, with any luck, five minutes in someone will release some more butterflies -”</p><p>Thomas’ shoulders shook a little as he laughed, small and brief, and although it wasn’t much, when the other pair finally sat down and the professor called out; “Jefferson, Hamilton? You’re up,” there was still a small hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.</p><p>Alexander pushed himself out of his seat, gave Thomas an exaggerated wink, waiting until he received an eye roll in return before stepping up to the desks in the middle of the room, placed his notes down and glanced at the professor, waiting for confirmation.</p><p>He shuffled through his papers a little, then looked up and gave Alexander a nod, and, taking a breath; </p><p>“Right,” Alexander started, not even looking at his notes because he <i>knew</i> this; Socrates, who wasn’t really his final argument, who he was only bothering with because he sort of wanted to rile Thomas up a little because Thomas hated him. Socrates, who thought the system of democracy was flawed, who only really started his teachings in order to prove someone wrong. They had already had this argument in the library two days before, when Alexander had produced a list of names and Thomas had taken one look, and, condescending and dismissive; </p><p>“Pft, <i>Socrates,</i>” he’d said, rolling his eyes, “he only became great by accident -”</p><p>“Accident! No, it was because he was <i>stubborn</i> -”</p><p>Now; in his element, halfway through rambling; “inspired them to abandon previous aspirations and instead devote themselves to -” Thomas cut across him, remarkably calm for someone who had spent the past two hours worrying about this very moment; “yes, he instructed Plato, who, in turn, became great. If the student’s theorising can surpass that of the teacher, is the teacher really great, or simply a skilled teacher?” – effectively shutting Alexander up for a second. His eyes locked with Thomas’ across the table, his mind scrambling for a moment but he couldn’t think of something all too intellectual, and so settled with;</p><p>“Great, maybe, but still <i>flawed</i> -” Thomas opened his mouth, and Alexander hurried on, shovelling out another prolix jumble of a counter argument so he wouldn’t get distracted on how the corners of Thomas’ lips twitched as he fought back a smile, “-because, he defined man as a ‘featherless biped’ right, yes? And was <i>applauded</i> for it, everyone tripping over themselves to kiss his fucking feet -”</p><p>“-Hamilton!” their professor cut in sharply.</p><p>“-sorry,” Alexander waved his hand, irritated because he had a <i>point</i> and so what was one word or another, ignoring the professor’s continued reprimands, “everyone was too busy jerking themselves off over him to <i>think</i> for a second, then Diogenes comes out of <i>nowhere,</i> slams a plucked chicken down in front of him and says <i>there’s your man,</i> and so, because technically he’s <i>right,</i> and therefore, <i>voila; flawed logic.</i>”</p><p>Thomas looked down at his notes for a second, biting his bottom lip and Alexander could tell he was definitely smiling now, knew from the way his cheeks were bunching up a little around his eyes, but when he raised his head his expression was composed; “I would argue that it’s unwise to dismiss someone for a single flawed argument. Philosophy, greatly, surrounds the human condition, and is it not true that to be human is to make mistakes?”</p><p>Alexander watched him as he continued, talking his sound way around Plato, building him up and rounding him out, his voice soft and calm. Alexander wondered how someone who professed to loathe this could speak so confidently, and was starting to lose track of his own thoughts even though they had literally <i>just</i> been discussing this, not even an hour ago. </p><p>He told himself to concentrate, to pick apart Thomas’ words, listen for something he could use rather than getting stuck on how Thomas was running one long finger down his page as he spoke, keeping himself on track of where he was, how he would pause delicately, whenever it was necessary – places where Alexander would usually fill with more unnecessary words, would only stop hurtling through his speech long enough to draw a ragged breath and then plunge back in; never knew where it would be prudent to wait and let the words settle for a second. </p><p>Thomas clearly <i>did</i> know however, was undeniably cut-out for this even if couldn’t see it himself, and Alexander was watching, half mesmerised as Thomas licked his lips quickly before continuing, his eyes now trained on Thomas’ mouth as he spoke, and it was only when “-poetry that describes -” broke through his unhelpfully blank mind that he cut in, before he had even thought about where he was going with it;</p><p>“I reckon Dante was a better poet than Plato.”</p><p>Thomas paused, eyebrows raising a little, “Dante?”</p><p>“Have you not heard of Dante, bitch? -”</p><p>“-Hamilton! For the last time -”</p><p>“I know who Dante is,” Thomas said, also ignoring their professor, “but wasn’t Dante only a poet, not a philosopher?”</p><p>“Wrong,” Alexander told him smugly, “he was both. And okay, Dante against Plato, right, so Dante’s poetry, which dates to around the Middle Ages, yes, in other words, a long fucking time ago -”</p><p>“-Hamilton, <i>please</i> will -”</p><p>“- is <i>still referenced today,</i> arguably more so than Plato, by composers and linguists and writers who are now considered to embody the definition of a ‘great artist,’ and yes, theorising is all very well, but if your words are re-contextualised again and again, brought back around cyclically every century, appear in every age; the Renaissance, Classicism, Romantics, and still, into <i>Modernism,</i> which scrapped everything that had come before it, said a massive fuck you -”</p><p>“<i>-Hamilton-</i>”</p><p>“- to every other artist because that was the whole point of the movement, and still, there he is – <i>Dante,</i> not Plato – or more <i>noticeably</i> referenced, anyway, which is basically the same thing - sure, in Milton, Tasso, and Shakespeare, - and then Michelangelo and Da Vinci, blah blah, but <i>also</i> Donne, Woolf, Joyce,” and, on a whim;  “<i>Tchaikovsky,</i>” he added pointedly, “<i>T. S. Eliot -</i>”</p><p> </p><p>“I <i>told</i> you,” Thomas huffed, half an hour later, as they walked back to their dorms after class, “I said; you’d pull some guy out of your ass, rattle on faster than I could comprehend and it would shut me right the fuck up.”</p><p>“I did <i>not </i>pull Dante from anywhere,” Alexander told him, even as Thomas shook his head in disbelief; “it’s your own fault for not paying enough attention in English lit.”</p><p> </p><p>Just before dinner, Alexander wandered up to the library, leaving Thomas sprawled on his bed, head tucked into the crook of his elbow as he slept softly. He made his way through the darkening grounds to the library where Maria was waiting for him, sitting alone at a table by the window with her papers for ‘Latin-American Literature of the Nineteenth Century’ spread out around her. After debating with himself, on and off for over a week; it was his business, it wasn’t – Alexander had just decided, <i>fuck it,</i> and, cornering her as she came out of a classroom the day before, had hissed, <i>I need to talk to you</i> and <i>it’s important.</i></p><p>“<i>Qué pasa?</i>” she asked, pushing the notes away from her and propping her chin in her palm as he pulled out a chair.</p><p>“I need to know,” Alexander said, cutting straight to the point because he couldn’t think of a good way to ask it more subtly, “I - something is up with Eliza and I need to know what the fuck it is.” </p><p>He was certain, more than certain really, because people only acted differently when there was a <i>reason.</i> John and Thomas weren’t the same as they were last semester, but John was heartbroken, and Thomas was missing Jane and so there were <i>reasons,</i> but Eliza was curt, and a little angry and constantly <i>snappy</i> and it was just so unlike her and so <i>something</i> had to be off. She wasn’t telling him and neither was Angelica and the only other person who had been with her in the time it took for her to go from soft and sunny to being a little hard around the edges was Maria, confirming his theory when;</p><p>“Ah,” she said, shifting a little uncomfortably and pushing herself upright, her spine becoming stiff and rigid, “what do you mean?”</p><p>“You know exactly what the fuck I mean.”</p><p>“Okay, fine, yes,” she conceded, quailing under his glare, “but, Alex, if she hasn’t told you then I really don’t think I should -”</p><p>“Okay, here’s the thing,” he cut across her, wouldn’t even let her finish because he was sick of worrying about everyone and he needed answers; “Eliza tells me things, okay? You and Angelica both know what it is, and I’m ninety per cent certain that the only reason <i>I</i> don’t know is because Eliza thinks I have enough shit going on so she’s doing her whole, ‘I’m fine, you don’t need to burden yourself with my crap’ thing, so just -”</p><p>“Okay, okay, <i>santa christo,</i>” Maria muttered with an exasperated shake of her head, “but just so you know, I’m only telling you because it actually involves me as well, otherwise I wouldn’t, yes?”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander said dismissively, “of course.”</p><p>“Okay,” Maria sighed a little, fiddling with her pens, capping and uncapping them; “remember how I told you that I liked Eliza?”</p><p>“Yeah?” Alexander frowned, because if he had predicted the direction this conversation would go in, <i>that</i> hadn’t been it.</p><p>“Well, over the holidays, when I was staying at her place, I told her -”</p><p>“Wait, you what!” Alexander yelped, now entirely thrown off course.</p><p>“Yeah, well,” Maria grimaced, “it was good for about a minute, because I kissed her, and she kissed me back -”</p><p>“No!” Alexander gasped, leaning forwards.</p><p>“Yeah, and then her father walked in -”</p><p>“Oh, what!” Alexander wrinkled his nose in sympathy, “way to spoil the mood Philip, okay -”</p><p>Maria laughed a little, but then stopped, her face falling, “well, anyway, he was really angry. Yelled at both of us for <i>indecency</i> or whatever, then pulled Eliza into his study and they were in there for so long I went to bed. Then he knocked on my door in the middle of the night and told me that under no circumstances was I ever to speak to Eliza again and I needed to leave.”</p><p>“Um, what the fuck?”</p><p>“Well, anyway, I did the next morning, I went back to my parent’s house, and mamá gave me a whole ‘what did you expect’ lecture – telling me I was stupid to assume anything else from such a wealthy, prestigious family. She went through various renditions of <i>we’re poor immigrants,</i> and something along the lines of <i>why the fuck would a family like that want anything to do with a family like ours</i> -”</p><p>“I don’t think Eliza -” Alexander said, trying to wrap his head around the fact that this seemed so entirely out of character.</p><p>“No,” Maria shook her head, “not Eliza, of course not – she’s never cared about those types of things, but Angelica found me just after term started, basically to commiserate and to say she thought her father is an asshole and that he didn’t speak for her or Eliza, but the problem is that he’s massively strict on soulmate things, like apparently they’re only allowed to date in their social circle because he believes that their soulmates would be someone with the same type of social standing as they have.”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander frowned, “that’s kind of fucked though, I don’t think it always works that way -”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Maria shrugged. “Sometimes people are traditionalist to the point of detriment. Did you know that they lied about us, to their parents? At the gala?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Well, not <i>lied,</i> exactly, but they never mentioned anything about our backgrounds.”</p><p>“I did know that, actually,” Alexander said, having listened to Angelica bitch about her father’s ideas about eligibility after she had received a particularly stringent letter from him.</p><p>“It’s whatever.” Maria shrugged, lifting a shoulder in casual, would-be difference, except that her eyes had filled with tears and Alexander reached out automatically, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing a little, saying; “<i>no, no llores, mi querida.</i>”</p><p>Maria sniffed, wiping a hand furiously across her cheek as though batting away an inconvenience.</p><p>“Did Eliza say anything?”</p><p>“Well, she tried to,” Maria said, a little thickly, “but I was kind of angry - which I shouldn’t have been,” she added quickly, “because it wasn’t <i>her</i> fault. As soon as she got back to school she found me and I told her to fuck off, which I <i>shouldn’t</i> have done, I know,” she scrunched her fist on the table, voice raising a little hysterically, “and she was so upset, all <i>please I don’t care what he says,</i> but her father had told me <i>don’t you dare</i> and I could still hear it, you know? And he has so much influence in parliament – like he could probably get some law passed that would mean my parents and I have to get the fuck out of here and go back to Peru and then we’d be right where we started, so I - I thought it was better to just…not.”</p><p>She trailed off, and Alexander stared for a moment, a little lost. “I don’t think Eliza would let him do that,” he offered tentatively, after a second.</p><p>“No,” Maria sniffed, wiping her eyes again with the back of her fist, digging the heel of her hand into her eyes and shaking her head, a quick, irritated jerk, “but I wasn’t thinking then, and now it’s too late.”</p><p>“It’s not -” Alexander started, stopped, and tried a different tact; “what if you’re soulmates?” but Maria shook her head again.</p><p>“Don’t,” she said, “please. We wouldn’t be, for a start, but that’s beside the point. It’s my own decision. I really don’t want to be lectured, especially from you.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alexander spluttered, indignant.</p><p>Maria rolled her eyes. “Really, Alex? Look, I don’t care what you keep telling yourself, I know it, <i>he</i> knows it, everyone else knows it, and I’m pretty sure you do too if you’d just think for a fucking second.”</p><p>“Think what?”</p><p>“Alex, <i>por el amor de dios,</i>” she sighed, looked at him a little piteously, eyes softening. “Riddle me this then, who do you want to go to the ball with, huh?”</p><p>“The - what?” Alexander asked, thrown, again, by how swiftly the conversation had gone in a direction he hadn’t prepared for.</p><p>“The <i>ball, idiota.</i>”</p><p>“Oh,” he started, then stopped, because the first person who came to mind, without him even considering it was Thomas - but that was preposterous, so absolutely <i>out of the question</i> he daren’t even mention it. He let the silence stretch between them, trying to think of someone else he could say instead, but when none came to mind and he still hadn’t said anything a minute later Maria just smiled as though she hadn’t been expecting anything else, cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand and said, far too kindly for the tremulous, off kilter ballooning <i>thing</i> he could feel ricocheting around inside him;</p><p>“That’s okay, Alex. You think about it, and then come and find me when you have. Or maybe we can get you good and drunk and then let you figure it out that way.”</p><p>“Figure <i>what</i> out?” Alexander asked, because he wasn’t entirely sure they were still talking about the ball anymore, but if Maria really was implying what he <i>thought</i> she was trying to tell him, then...well. Then he didn’t know what to think. </p><p>“You’ll get there, love,” Maria gave his cheek two little taps, as though petting a particularly petulant child, then shook herself a little, and; “right, help me with this, would you?”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t sleep much, again, that night, too busy stuck on <i>what</i> and <i>the actual fuck,</i> a little scared because wanting to go to a dance with Thomas was one thing, but whatever the fuck it was Maria had been saying seemed far to close to the thing he was <i>definitely not thinking about</i> which was getting harder and harder to actually push aside and he was scared that soon he wouldn’t be able to. In the end, he rolled out of bed at around four, thinking that if he wasn’t going to sleep he may as well get some work done and simultaneously put off thinking about it for another day. </p><p>He stayed in the library past breakfast, his mood darkening even further when he glanced down, reaching across the desk for a fresh page and caught sight of the inside of his forearm. There, just in front of his elbow was a little coffee mug; his one, because there was a tiny poppy sketched just under the rim, the one he filled at breakfast and took to lectures on particularly bad days, and he decided on the spot he didn’t have the energy to think about that either right now, would add it to his ever growing list of <i>what the fucks.</i> He went back to furiously drafting, then redrafting because it was all <i>wrong,</i> before finally writing an essay for ‘Comparative Literature’, telling himself he wasn’t <i>avoiding</i> Thomas exactly, he was just busy; the essay <i>was</i> due tomorrow, after all, and if he had a sudden invested interest in who Thomas might or might not be taking to the ball then that was pure coincidence. </p><p>He would have stayed there all day, hiding away from everyone and scribbling fast enough to block out his treacherous mind, jumping, like a skipping record from one thing to the next - except that John found him around twelve and placed a letter on top of the incomplete essay he had been reading over, scanning for grammar errors. It was more the fact that he never got mail – who was there to write to him – than anything else that finally managed to shock him out of his reverie.</p><p>“What!” he gasped, as John grinned, pulling out a chair to sit down next to him, “where did you get this?”</p><p>“In the box with the rest of the post,” John said, shrugging a little, watching Alexander tear open the letter with much more excitement than was necessary. “Do you know who it’s from?”</p><p>“Yes,” Alexander breathed, distracted, had never really understood why John had always been so happy whenever he received something in the mail – even if it was just a letter from his mum, but got it now; eagerness bubbling through him, loosening the knot and ridding him of the crawling, irksome skin that had been clinging to him all morning as his eyes skimmed down Anna’s remarkably accurate sentences for someone who hadn’t been learning Spanish for very long. He smiled at her small, slightly crooked handwriting, telling him anything really, about how she was back at school, about how she wanted to get a pet because a girl in her class had brought in her bunny for show-and-tell and she thought it was the sweetest thing ever, how then maybe the bunny and Nina could be friends, and it was so heart warming and affectionate he felt tears prickling his eyes before he could stop them.</p><p>“I have to find Thomas,” he said, scrambling to scoop his papers together, forgetting to keep them in order, mindlessly cramming the jumbled pile into his book and clutching the precious letter in the other hand.</p><p>“Yeah, actually,” John said, watching him with a slightly amused crook in his eyebrows, “while we’re on that topic, can I ask why I walked into our room yesterday to find him on your bed?”</p><p>“He was tired,” Alexander pushed his chair in, “I had to talk to Maria about something and didn’t want to wake him.”</p><p>“Right,” John grinned, for some reason looking happier than he had in a while, “so…this is going to be a regular thing now, is it? Just so I can be prepared, you know, like are there certain times when I <i>shouldn’t</i> come in, if you two are going to be...busy...”</p><p>“What?” Alexander muttered, confused, still too focused on the letter to pay much attention, then, when some of John’s sentiment filtered through to his conscience called; “don’t be such an asshole,” over his shoulder as he hurried out of the library, scowling a little when John only laughed.</p><p> </p><p>He was half way out of the library when he stopped short, trying to remember if Thomas had a class, then, when he couldn’t think, decided that his best bet was the great hall, because it was lunchtime and also a Thursday. Thursday lunches were always something roasted – chicken or softened, rosemary lamb with carrots and potatoes and Thomas loved it, Alexander knew, would always bother to make time for lunch on Thursdays and, sure enough, when Alexander stood at the entrance, looking around for the familiar head of curls, there he was towards the middle of the hall, talking with some people Alexander didn’t know who he presumed were from Thomas’ music classes.</p><p>He was clearly midway through a discussion, pointing his fork at someone - Lio, Alexander remembered suddenly, who he had seen on the first day back and who everyone had dubbed a <i>lazy fucking bastard</i> - jabbing it in the air to punctuate his point; “Perlman’s glissando is fucking <i>incendiary,</i> don’t you dare insult it -” and Alexander teetered there for a second, unsure weather or not to interrupt him; he looked busy, he wouldn’t want to be bothered, but Thomas looked around, as though he could tell someone was watching him, his face splitting into a wide grin when he spotted Alexander, breaking immediately out of the conversation and turning on the bench to face him as he sat down.</p><p>“Hey,” he said, putting his fork back down, “where have you been? You weren’t at breakfast.”</p><p>“No,” Alexander said, still a little breathless, “I was writing an essay, anyway, <i>look.</i>” He pushed the letter in front of Thomas.</p><p>“Oh!” he said, glancing down, “is that from Annie?”</p><p>“Yes!” Alexander grinned, “and it’s my first mail ever.”</p><p>“Ever?” Thomas asked, looking up at him, “you’ve never gotten anything in the post before?”</p><p>“No,” he shrugged.</p><p>Thomas looked at him for a moment, brow furrowing, then back down at the envelope, “what does she say?”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander waved a hand, “this and that - she’s honestly the sweetest thing ever, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Thomas smiled, “still, why do <i>I</i> never get letters from her?” he said, a little indignant, “kind of <i>rude</i> of her, but whatever.”</p><p>Alexander watched him fork a roast potato and suddenly realised he was starving, trying to think of the last time he had actually eaten before remembering it was lunch, but yesterday; he’d skipped dinner after seeing Maria, too muddled to make room in his mind for logical things such as eating. Now, he glanced over at the main table to see if there was anything left over, saw only a half empty bowl of carrots, boiled and cut into little slices, and thought he may as well just wait until dinner if that was all that was left, when Thomas caught him looking, asked; “you hungry,” then, when Alexander shrugged a shoulder, a little stern; “please tell me you’ve eaten today?”</p><p>“Well,” Alexander muttered vaguely and Thomas glared at him.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, why can’t you take care of yourself.”</p><p>“I forgot!” he protested, a little weakly, breaking off when Thomas snapped;</p><p>“How can you just forget to eat?” he shook his head, closing his eyes briefly, “here,” he pushed his plate towards him, “have mine.”</p><p>“But you like chicken,” Alexander said, even as his stomach grumbled a little.</p><p>“So?” Thomas shrugged, brushing Alexander’s protests away with a touch or irritation, “you need to eat.”</p><p>“Okay,” he conceded, putting a piece of potato in his mouth and watching Thomas nod, satisfied, as he chewed, then; “how was class?” he asked, through the mouthful.</p><p>“So interesting,” Thomas said, his eyes lighting up, “we’re doing a comparison of performance styles over the past two centuries.”</p><p>“That’s nice,” Alexander said, swallowing and cutting up some chicken, “who’s Perlman?”</p><p>“A violinist,” Thomas shrugged, “I always thought he was a better conductor than anything else, but he does a good take on Beethoven I suppose. Anyway,” he nudged Anna’s letter back across the table. “Read this to me?”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander put down his cutlery to open it; “Dear Alex,” he started, “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you, but you have very nice writing. I just thought I would tell you in case no one had,” Alexander smiled, in spite of himself, biting his lip to try and stop, but no one <i>had</i> told him, and it was so <i>nice</i> because he hated his writing; “Anyway -”</p><p>“No,” Thomas interrupted him, “read it in Spanish, like she’s written it.”</p><p>“But then you won’t understand it?” Alexander shoved another potato in his mouth then regretted not cutting it up a second later.</p><p>“That’s not the point,” Thomas said, catching Alexander’s eye briefly and looking quickly back down, “I just like listening to you when you speak Spanish. I thought I’d told you that.”</p><p>“No,” Alexander said, <i>didn’t</i> say, <i>I would have remembered if you had,</i> and looked back down at Anna’s letter hoping his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt, “<i>des todos modos, creo que tienes mucha suerte. Ojalá tuviera un pez. Hay una chica en una de mis classes en la escuela, y los jueves</i> -”</p><p>“Excuse me -” a voice broke through and Alexander looked up, stopping mid sentence, something in him closing up horribly tight when he saw Abigail standing on the other side of Thomas with a pretty blush gracing her cheeks.</p><p>“Sorry,” she said, glancing at Alexander, who bit back a scowl, and shrugged instead, watching as Thomas turned to her with a smile.</p><p>“Hey, Abby.”</p><p>“Hey,” she said softly, holding his gaze for a second too long, before reaching out to place a notebook next to him on the table, “I’ve finished with this so I just thought I’d give it back. Thanks so much for lending it, it was so helpful.”</p><p>“Oh,” Thomas nodded, glancing down at the book, “sure, no problem.”</p><p>“Okay, well, thanks again. I’ll see you later.”</p><p>“Of course,” Thomas said, returning her smile and turning back around to face Alexander as Abigail made her way to the other end of the hall.</p><p>“What did she want?” Alexander grumbled, feeling unnecessarily gripey; thinking of Abigail’s soft little <i>hey,</i> her wide, honeyed eyes, delicate fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, all smiles and softness and, fuck that, honestly, he wasn’t in the mood.</p><p>“Oh, we share a musicology elective together,” Thomas said shrugging, and Alexander added <i>does music</i> to the increasingly long list of reasons why Abigail seemed to be the most perfect fucking person ever, “and she missed the first half of class so I let her borrow my notes.”</p><p>“How chivalrous.” Alexander said primly, his appetite suddenly abated, pushing his plate away from him and scooping up his own books, “right, well, I’m off.”</p><p>“Wait,” Thomas said, eyes widening a little as Alexander stood abruptly, reaching out to grab the sleeve of his cardigan, “where are you going?”</p><p>“I have to finish this,” Alexander waved his book where he had stuffed his unfinished essay, trying not to snap, but it was hard because he could see Abigail down the far end of the hall, sitting with a friend and laughing over something; and of course she had to be <i>funny</i> as well –</p><p>“But,” Thomas protested, holding firm to the material even as Alexander tried to tug his arm away, “but…you just <i>got</i> here, and I haven’t seen you all day...”</p><p>“Then count yourself lucky,” Alexander said, a little starkly.</p><p>“Hah,” Thomas’ expression closed off a little, finally letting go of Alexander’s jumper, but then, before he could turn away; “well, I’ll walk with you, my classroom is on the way to the library, anyway.”</p><p>Alexander shrugged, waiting for Thomas to get this things, pausing, halfway out of the bench, to cut back into the conversation his friends had continued from before; “<i>there’s so many gaps in any kind of argument for Chopin that I’m not even going to bother,</i>” and Alexander stopped listening, gaze darting over to Abigail again, then away quickly when she glanced over, eyes searching for Thomas but he wasn’t paying attention, was reaching out a hand to grab for Alexander’s, fingers fitting easily with his and pulling him back to the bench; “darlin’ back me up; Tchaikovsky is basically a god, yes?” </p><p>“Definitely,” Alexander nodded, snarkiness melting a little when Thomas turned back to the group; “see, if Alex thinks so then it must be true -” but dropped his hand all the same as they made their way out of the hall, just in case Abigail was still watching, because he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea – Thomas deserved someone like her, and he wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything.</p><p> </p><p>There was a small crowd outside the hall surrounding a girl standing with her arms outstretched and reciting, with a lilting Irish accent, Shakespeare, by the sound of the prose - to a boy a little taller than she was, his shoulders broad and jaw sharp, but who was blushing, hands over his mouth as he watched the girl; “my bounty is as boundless as the sea.”</p><p>They lingered on the staircase to watch, stayed long enough for Alexander to confirm that it was, in fact, Shakespeare, looking down at them both and wondering how they found each other, such seemingly different people – how had their paths crossed, and, as the boy took the girls face gently in his hands, kissing her soft and sweet, how lucky they were.</p><p>“Was that Shakespeare?” Thomas asked, nudging him as they made their way up the stairs and off into the hall that led to the library.</p><p>“Yes!” Alexander smiled, impressed, “Romeo and Juliet.”</p><p>“Fitting,” Thomas cocked an eyebrow, took a breath, then said; “so, I...uh - who… who were you thinking of going with?”</p><p>It was too close to Maria’s question last night, and the sick feeling, now mingling with thoughts of Abigail swelled through him again, so, instead of actually answering the question; “are <i>you</i> going to ask anyone?”</p><p>Thomas was quiet for a moment, looking down, a couple of steps behind Alexander so he couldn’t properly see his expression; “I don’t think…” he paused, “I don’t think the person I want to ask would say yes if I did – or,” he added, “they would say yes, but as friends, not, you know, in the way that I wanted.”</p><p>Alexander scoffed a little, thinking that whatever was on Abigail’s mind, <i>friends</i> definitely wasn’t it, and was about to say something when they stopped at the door to the library, and he realised that Thomas was supposed to have reached his classroom before now.</p><p>“I thought you said your classroom was on the way?” </p><p>“Oh,” Thomas shifted a little, reaching up a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, “well, technically it is, but, like, three floors up.”</p><p>“But you said -”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Thomas shrugged, “but you were leaving and I knew you would say no if I asked to walk you here.”</p><p>“Oh.” Alexander looked at him for a second, then made up his mind, because it didn’t matter what he wanted, it was what <i>Thomas</i> wanted that was important, because Thomas deserved everything, <i>everything,</i> and he could stop being selfish for five seconds if it meant that Thomas could have it.</p><p>“Are you going to ask her?”</p><p>“Who?” Thomas frowned a little.</p><p>“Abigail.”</p><p>“Oh,” Thomas said, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “why?”</p><p>“You know,” Alexander told him softly, “she really likes you. If that’s what was stopping you – like maybe you think she would only want to go as friends, but -”</p><p>“Wait, what?” Thomas cut in, brows furrowing.</p><p>“Trust me,” Alexander nodded earnestly, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She’d say yes.”</p><p>“Wait..” Thomas said slowly, “wait…you think I was talking about Abigail?”</p><p>“Well, yeah.” Alexander said, hurrying on when Thomas opened his mouth to protest, “it’s okay, honestly, she’s totally besotted.” <i>For good reason,</i> he almost added.</p><p>Thomas looked at him silently for a moment, something in him seeming to pull away a little, “so,” he said, after a beat, “so, you think I should ask her.”</p><p>“You should,” Alexander said decisively.</p><p>“Right…” Thomas looked down, swallowed, and then; “what about you?”</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Thomas nodded, expression closed, “who are you going with?”</p><p>“Oh,” Alexander waved his hand dismissively, “oh…someone – some, uh, girl I met at the bonfire night… thing,” he invented, sounding, he thought, completely unconvincing, particularly since he’d never, if he thought about it properly, wanted anything from a girl other than friendship, and to be perfectly honest, he had thought that was rather obvious, but apparently not because Thomas nodded and gave him a small, tight lipped smile.</p><p>“Okay,” he took a breath, nodded again, “okay. Well. Abigail. Yeah, okay, I’ll - I’ll ask her.”</p><p>“Good,” Alexander tried to smile, but something inside him was suddenly horribly weak and unsteady, and a minute later, when Thomas had turned and was halfway down the hall, he had to stand there for a minute trying to count his breaths, trying to stop the hiccupping shakiness, to focus on <i>in</i> and <i>out,</i> but his eyes were now swimming with tears, dangerously close to spilling down his cheeks and it took him a good twenty minutes, stuffing his fists into his sockets and huffing out trembling breaths, hunched over a table in a distant corner of the library before he could finally stop them, white hot and half angry, the soft skin around his eyes red and puffy from where he rubbed it because he <i>shouldn’t</i> and <i>Thomas would be happy and that’s what mattered.</i> </p><p>It was a while later still he finally convinced himself to <i>get the fuck over it</i> and pulled out the pages of his essay again which he had to read through five times before he remembered what he had been writing about.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is a quote from the Greek philosopher, Heraclitus</p><p>p.s holy crap we're at 100k</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. my whole being calls for an act of violence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>the gift of words, a distraction, and an inevitability.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>here you go; alternative chapter title may or may not be: alex wakes the fuck up</p><p>the fact that I've had this scene as a note in my phone since last october really says something about my ability to post consistent updates</p><p>trigger warning; mentions of abuse (after Nina scene.) Please only read what you're comfortable with &lt;3 you all seem to have forgotten that in this au Alex has a traumatic history so perhaps you can understand why he isn't throwing himself into the arms of everyone who opens them and forgive him for being hesitant</p><p>also sorry - next chapter will probably take a while because I have something I want to put in Thomas' pov but I don't think it belongs here so I'm trying to figure out what to do</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Halfway through writing his second essay - this time for ‘Progressive Human Rights’ - when he had been in the library for <i>over twelve hours,</i> only stopping twice, once to take Anna’s letter to Thomas and then again to get himself some coffee and steal some of John’s ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself’ chocolate, Alexander decided he didn’t care anymore; he had far too many other things to worry about. The next morning, frowning on his way to class and trying to convince himself by making a list in his head; <i>Maria and Eliza, Eliza not even telling him, Thomas and Jane, John and Louise, the possibility that John might never find his soulmate</i> - so clearly <i>far too many things,</i> and therefore <i>Abigail being pretty</i> didn’t even come <i>close</i> to being on that list. Just to prove to himself that he was <i>totally over it,</i> when he caught sight of Maria as she was turning into a classroom, chatting to the girl next to her, Alexander grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hall even as she got out a startled;</p><p>“Alex! What the fuck? <i>no puedes simplemente asustar a la gente así</i> -”</p><p>“Okay, here’s the thing,” he hissed urgently, a little out of breath, pulling her to the side of the corridor, leaning in slightly so no one would overhear, “the thing is, I need a date -”</p><p>“Wait, why?” Maria frowned, staring at him as though she couldn’t quite work out what he was saying, which was funny because everything was suddenly becoming clear in his mind; he knew exactly what needed to happen now and he couldn’t understand why he’d spent all night worrying about it – it was perfectly simple really.</p><p>“Because,” he waved his hand, not particularly wanting to explain because it sort of made him want to kick something. Repeatedly. “It’s a whole thing, Thomas is going with Abigail and I couldn’t stand there and tell him I wasn’t going with anyone, so I said I <i>was</i>, and now I -”</p><p>“Oh my <i>god,</i>” Maria banged her head gently against the side of the wall, screwing shut her eyes for a second, “I told you to <i>figure it the fuck out,</i> not get yourself into <i>more mess</i> -”</p><p>“Mess?” Alexander scoffed, “Pft, <i>mess,</i> I am the literal embodiment of a walking disaster, don’t try me. Anyway, I have an idea.”</p><p>“I’m thrilled,” Maria gazed at him with her face a little set, “forgive me if I’m not -”</p><p>“It’s a <i>good one</i> this time,” Alexander cut through her, only marginally affronted, “we both can’t go with who we really want, right? Like, you can’t go with Eliza, and I can’t go with, well, anyway, my point is we should just go together, like as friends obviously, but -”</p><p>“Actually, that isn’t <i>such</i> a bad idea,” Maria said, nodding thoughtfully, “you’ve had worse, I’ll give you that.” </p><p>“Right? And we can distract each other and have pity drinks and you won’t laugh at me when I can’t dance.”</p><p>Maria snorted, “I will most <i>definitely</i> laugh, but yes, <i>buena idea mi pequeño idiota.</i>”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks,” Alexander let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding, and “<i>eres la idiota, no yo</i>… but okay, that’s all you can go to class now -”</p><p>“Oh, thanks,” Maria said in mock outrage, the pretence ruined a little by the fact that she was grinning, “god forbid <i>you</i> miss class, but who cares if the rest of us do -”</p><p> </p><p>“Not true,” he started to walk away backwards down the hall, accidently bumping into someone running the opposite way and Maria snorted; “I care <i>very</i> deeply.”</p><p>“That’ll be the day,” Maria muttered, and he shot her a grin and turned, almost at the end of the corridor, but;</p><p>“Wait!” she called, “wait, <i>wait</i>, ask me properly or I won’t go!”</p><p>“Ha ha,” Alexander rolled his eyes, but slowed his steps when Maria crossed her arms, raising a cool eyebrow, and so; “fine, fine,” he grumbled, hurried back towards her, shaking his head because <i>really?</i> Glaring a little at the amusement dancing behind her eyes, he dropped to his knees, held out his hand and waited until she took his offered palm, smirking slightly.</p><p>“I hope you’re enjoying this,” he muttered, and she grinned wider, swatted him lightly across the head;</p><p>“That doesn’t sound like a request -”</p><p>“Calm down, <i>Cristo,</i>” he stopped glaring, smiled instead, batted his eyelashes for good measure and she bit down her lip to stop her grin, still pretending to be angry; “Maria, <i>hermosa, mi amor, luz de mi vida, mi mundo entero</i> -”</p><p>“Yes, yes, okay, good enough,” Maria was laughing as she helped him up, shaking her head with a hint of exasperation, muttered; “do you ever take anything seriously?” but gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying off to her abandoned class.</p><p>Alexander watched her go, his heart lightening a little because at least now there was one less thing he needed to worry about – but, still, he protested as he climbed the stairs to his classroom, he didn’t care about pretty girls who were obviously better than him, because there was still plenty of other reasons on his ‘not-thinking-about-dance-because-priorities-exist’ list. Things worked out in his favour because when he sidled into class, ten minutes late and a little guilty, mumbled an apology to his professor and slipped into his usual seat, John promptly leaned across his desk and informed him in a hissed whisper that he and Louise had decided to go to the ball together.</p><p>“I’m sorry, you’re <i>fucking what?</i>” Alexander gasped, forgetting to keep his voice lowered, earning a few suppressed giggles and a stern look of reproach from their professor.</p><p>John, who, in Alexander’s opinion, had clearly <i>not</i> thought this through at all, only shrugged and didn’t really listen when Alexander spend the rest of class berating him, because who the fuck would go to a dance with someone they were probably in love with, wished they were soulmates, found out that they weren’t, were now facing the increasingly likely prospect of <i>not finding their actual soulmate,</i> and had proceeded to pine miserably over them every minute since – which, as Alexander argued, was the kind of idiocy <i>he</i> would normally engage in and was, frankly, a death wish.</p><p>He barrelled into his next class – his and Thomas’ debating unit – grouchy because his reasoning hadn’t made any kind of impression and John was now ignoring him, feeling half furious and half desperate for some kind of confirmation that it wasn’t just <i>him</i> who thought this was a monumental error of John’s, ready to spend the class grumbling to Thomas about just that, except that Thomas wasn’t there, so for the first fifteen minutes he let his bitterness stew until it had mellowed enough for him to actually pay attention. He wasn’t particularly worried because although it was Thomas, who was too damn polite to be late <i>purposely,</i> was always on time except for stupid things; when Alexander was worried about the Schuyler’s gala and Thomas had lingered in the corridor with him while his class progressed on the other side of the wall, or one time when they’d been arguing lightly over their debate points after lunch and Lafayette had dumped his bag down on the table, frowned and said, a little reproachful, “don’t you have class?” and Thomas glanced up at the clock, muttered; “shit I forgot,” and Alex had laughed himself stupid because, <i>oh, look at that, thee Thomas Peter Randolph François Jefferson can be forgetful,</i> or, once, nearing the exams just before midterm break when they had been in the library all morning, Alexander writing a practice essay on ‘The Psychology Behind Modernism’ and Thomas supposedly looking over his notes for musicology, except that he’d really just been rereading ‘The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky’ for the hundredth time, and had fallen asleep with his head on the desk. When his composition class started Alexander left him there, thinking he needed the rest, but Thomas hadn’t thanked him for it;</p><p>“You don’t even take notes!” Alexander said, laughing, when Thomas fretted because <i>what if that was the class that changed my grade from a pass to a fail Alex,</i> and Thomas had shaken his head; “I still <i>listen,</i> just because I’m not writing notes doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention.”</p><p>Five minutes later when Thomas still hadn’t shown up, Alexander sighed, because the idiot had probably just fallen asleep again or something, pulled out another sheet of paper and wrote out two copies of his notes despite the fact that his writing was pretty much unintelligible, thinking that even if Thomas didn’t take notes he really shouldn’t be missing out on this content – because, for once, the pair debating today were actually kind of good, and Alexander could grudgingly admit he was impressed. He only started to properly worry afterwards when Thomas had been absent the whole lesson - because Alexander had only known him to miss an entire class once, and that was when Jane had died. </p><p>Alexander started heading towards the great hall, thinking Thomas might be at lunch, glancing over the notes he had written for him and frowning because he wasn’t sure Thomas would even be able to understand it - his writing was <i>so</i> messy, and there were extra scribbles all over the place - so he sat with Liz, for once not attached to Hercules’ side but alone and quietly reading ‘Threads of Life; a history through the eye of the needle’ and re-wrote it onto a fresh sheet, ruthlessly editing out useless phrases; <i>a failed to counter b’s use of constitutional vesting clause section I, was too busy staring at b’s tits, almost entirely positive the two are fucking</i> or <i>interestingly uncommon take on durability of clause, senselessness apparently makes clause noteworthy, rather than exhausting content - must look into; a too busy giving eyes to b to realise this possible PhD-worthy revelation, fucking status now confirmed, what’s the bet their safeword is ‘vesting power’ because a glances at b every time its mentioned,</i> which were kind of embarrassing but helped him remember everything when it came to studying. At the end of lunch when there was still nothing he allowed himself to panic a little, the knot in his chest tightening uncomfortably, started to suspect something was actually <i>wrong</i> when Lafayette sat down opposite him and only shrugged when Alexander asked if he had seen Thomas today.</p><p>So, all in all, what with John being a total idiot, and Thomas being uncharacteristically <i>forgetful</i> and suddenly nowhere to be found, Alexander didn’t have room in his mind for any thoughts remotely connected to balls, and who Thomas was taking.</p><p>His resolve lasted approximately thirty-three hours before crumbling.</p><p> </p><p>He cornered Martha as she entered the hall with a few of her friends, asked her, going for casual and probably coming off a lot more concerned than he would have hoped, <i>hey do you know where I could find Thomas?</i> – his agitation quelled when she grimaced, said something about <i>composition</i> and <i>very stressed</i> and <i>spent all of class complaining about how terrible his piece was</i> and so Alexander laughed with a nod, because that did sound like Thomas, thanked her and turned his steps away from his next lecture hall and instead headed down the stairs to the wing of the college dedicated to music. He had only been here a couple of times, usually left Thomas alone when he was practicing because if Thomas was playing then Alexander was more likely to be distracted than productive. After a couple of wrong turns he arrived at the project studios which were normally a good idea to steer clear of simply because there were too many people lingering around who were likely to break down in tears if you so much as smiled at them.</p><p>He walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, the walls and floor covered in carpet to help deaden the noise, peering through the small square windows of glass that were cut into each studio door, listening to the faint, mingling notes from a cello, pianos, a clarinet – or trombone, or flute, he had no idea which – until he stood up on tiptoe to look into the second-to-last room and saw Thomas sitting at a piano, facing away from him, holding a bunch of papers in one hand and the other resting on the keys, pressing a single note repeatedly with his index finger. </p><p>Alexander grinned, and pushed open the door.</p><p>“You know all this lack of sunlight can’t be good for your health,” he said, dropping his books unceremoniously on the floor as Thomas turned around, smiling and;</p><p>“Alex,” he sighed, the corners of his eyes crinkling and waving the papers he had been holding, “please kindly wring my neck with these.”</p><p>“Bold of you to assume I’m strong enough,” Alexander scoffed, tried not to think back to the last time he had seen Thomas, tainted with a <i>sure, okay I’ll ask her,</i> and said, mainly to distract himself; “so, given up coming to class now? Above both writing notes <i>and</i> listening?”</p><p>“<i>No,</i>” Thomas rolled his eyes, though he looked a little pained, “I have to finish this. I was supposed to be done with it by now, but it’s not <i>right</i> and my professor offered me an extension but I don’t want extra time, especially if no one else is getting any.” He rubbed a hand over his face, distracted, then; “did I miss much? I was kind of banking on the pair being really shit.”</p><p>“Well, they weren’t,” Alexander told him, “but -”</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Thomas groaned, “the one time I’m not there.”</p><p>“They waited for that exact purpose, clearly. You’re the sole reason people are crap at debating.”</p><p>It was because Thomas was biting his lip to keep himself from smiling that Alexander waltzed over and handed him the first copy of notes – the bad, unintelligible copy – just to see if he could make Thomas smile properly, saying loftily; “luckily for you <i>someone</i> thinks note-taking is actually important.”</p><p>“Wait,” Thomas said, taking the papers with a small frown, “did you write this for me?” Then, a second later, “Alex what the fuck does it say?”</p><p>“Firstly, rude,” Alexander huffed, placed a hand over his heart for good measure then dropped the proper version on the piano keys where it promptly slid off again. Thomas caught it, his frown deepening, looking up as Alexander tried to tug the bad copy back; “- my writing is perfectly fucking legible, <i>fuck you very much,</i> and yes I did and you should be thanking me, not <i>insulting my handwriting,</i> you pretentious asshole.”</p><p>Thomas grinned, and Alexander’s heart did a little victorious swoop. “Your handwriting always deserves an insult, darlin’.”</p><p>But then, as Alexander tried to think of a more intellectual response that wasn’t on the lines of <i>fuck</i> which was currently all his brain could think of, Thomas shook his head; “wait, did you take notes for me, and then <i>rewrite</i> those notes?”</p><p>“Well, <i>yeah,</i>” Alexander glared at him, “since we’ve already established how terrible my writing is, I didn’t think there would be much point in giving you something you couldn’t actually read.”</p><p>“But you take ages to write your <i>own</i> notes,” Thomas said quietly, staring at the page, “how did you write this as well?”</p><p>Alexander shrugged, confused as to why Thomas was still going on because it was literally just <i>notes;</i> “how else were you supposed to catch up? They can’t run the debate again.”</p><p>“No,” Thomas was frowning again, “but you didn’t have to.”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Alexander told him, because it wasn’t, and he would do it every class if Thomas needed him to, because it was Thomas - so he didn’t really care if he didn’t finish his own notes as long as Thomas had whatever he needed. “Really. No stress.”</p><p>“Okay,” Thomas swallowed, then looked up, “well, thank you.”</p><p>“<i>De nada.</i>” Alexander tried to tug the bad original copy back but Thomas held on, suddenly looking embarrassed.</p><p>“No, uh, can I keep this one too?”</p><p>“Why?” Alexander asked suspiciously, fighting back a smile at the faint blush that had coloured Thomas’ cheeks.</p><p>“Because I just... want it,” Thomas said, determinedly not looking at him, reaching up to grab his folder off the top of the piano, stuffed with half finished compositions, essay drafts, and probably an article or two on Tchaikovsky, and slipping the notes between the pages.</p><p>“But you said you can’t read it,” Alexander protested, “and it’s literally exactly the same as the second copy but with a bunch of extra crap.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Thomas was spreading out the papers he had been clutching when Alexander had come in out across music rest, “but you…you kind of write how you speak and it’s just... interesting.”</p><p>“I, what?”</p><p>“Yeah, like there are all these extra words everywhere, and random comments that are in no way connected to what the notes are actually about, and all the sentences kind of go on forever – like once I read over an essay you wrote and there was an entire half-page paragraph that comprised of a <i>single sentence</i> and the professor had still given it a tick because you somehow made it work, and it’s…it’s just <i>interesting,</i> okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” Alexander said, swallowed because it sounded like an echo of Anna’s letter; <i>in case no one has told you, you have nice writing,</i> and the two were almost enough to turn something he hated about himself into something he was almost fond of. “But just so you know, the list of proposed safewords were for Julian and Olivia, not me.”</p><p>“Safe - <i>what?</i>”</p><p>“I reckon they’re hooking up in secret, because isn’t Olivia going to the ball with some sixth year?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Thomas scoffed, “either that or Julian is just a total dick because he spends most of class staring at Olivia’s tits.”</p><p>“That’s what <i>I</i> said, Jules was sitting next to me and I was like, <i>shame her tits can’t debate because then she might actually win,</i> and Jules was all ‘don’t be ridiculous there’s more tension between statues than there is with these two.’ Anyway,” Alexander leaned against the side of the piano, “play me what you have so far.”</p><p>“What, this crap?” Thomas glared at his music scores, littered with bars that had been crossed out, notes that had been angrily erased, “I <i>hate</i> it, because in my head I know exactly what I want it to sound like, and it just <i>doesn’t.</i>”</p><p> “What was the assignment criteria?”</p><p>“Nothing really,” Thomas said, shrugging a little, “just incorporate characteristics common to the classical era as central elements and use folk songs as some kind of inspiration – and then later we have to comparatively analyse our composition against a well-known piece. Classicism elements, that’s, like, singly melodies, a lot of simplicity, clear textures,” he explained, when he caught Alexander’s perplexed expression, and Alexander nodded like he had more than a vague inkling of what ‘clear textures’ meant in terms of musicology.</p><p>“So not Tchaikovsky,” he said with a small smile.</p><p>Thomas shook his head, a little petulant; “no.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know crap from non-crap, so play it to me anyway. Besides,” he added, because Thomas had scoffed, “I think anything sounds nice if it’s you who’s playing it.”</p><p>“Hilarious,” Thomas huffed, rolled his eyes, but straightened out his shoulders and started to play regardless, stopping every few bars to explain just exactly what was wrong with them – everything, apparently.</p><p>“Hey,” Alexander said, after a moment, recognising the melody Thomas had just played, “isn’t that Isaac what’s-his-name? Chaotic Spanish guy? You played one of his pieces to me once.”</p><p>“<i>Yeah,</i>” Thomas looked up at him, his fingers stilling on the keys, “you remember that? I…yeah, Al was partly famous for a lot of Spanish folk-lore pieces,” then, again, voice soft and a little disbelieving; “I can’t believe you remembered.”</p><p>“Of course I do,” Alexander shrugged, didn’t think he would ever be able to forget Thomas’ soft <i>I’m playing it for you</i> even though Thomas seemed to think it was just some throwaway comment.</p><p>“Oh,” Thomas said, gazing at him with something unintelligible but perhaps a little reverential in his expression. “I really like him,” then, after a pause, “and you.”  </p><p>“Oh?” Alexander smiled, “second after Tchaikovsky?”</p><p>“Perhaps-” </p><p>“Maybe one day he’ll be dethroned as favourite -”</p><p>“Keep looking at me like that and he will.” </p><p>Thomas dropped his gaze, went back to playing, now explaining the parts that had been influenced by Albéniz and how they weren’t good enough. Alexander hadn’t been lying; he wouldn’t know a good piece from a bad one but he was fairly certain that this was no where close to bad, was, in fact, quite lovely; soft and a little melancholic – beautiful, even. Alexander told him so when he had finished, wrapped his arms around Thomas’ shoulders and mumbled it into his neck, “<i>eso es hermoso amor, no se de que te preocupas,</i>” kissed the fabric of Thomas’ turtleneck wishing it was skin, and then went to sit down on the floor, his back against the wall with ‘On Liberty’- which he had to read for one of his classes - balanced on his knees, so Thomas could concentrate and fix whatever problems he claimed existed and Alexander could at least pretend to get some work done.</p><p> </p><p>When he’d been waylaid for the fifth time, distractedly watching Thomas as he replayed the same five notes over and over again, with, if his muttered; “<i>va te faire foutre, putain de clés inutiles</i>” was anything to go by, increasing frustration, his fingers stretching easily across an octave before slamming down a curled fist on the keys so the notes jarred together abruptly and Alexander jumped, startled, and dragged his eyes guiltily back down to his book, began reading from the top of the page again then stopped a paragraph in when he realised he’d already read the passage before – multiple times in fact, because apparently Thomas playing the same bar repeatedly was enough to make him stupefied, he gave it up as a bad job and started on a reply to Anna’s letter instead.</p><p>He told her about the latest proposal, (someone had snuck a gramophone into the lecture he shared with Angelica – who had <i>not</i> been impressed – played a scratching record of the ‘Phantom of the Opera’ and performed a dramatic retelling of Christine’s death, complete with a beseeching cry of ‘<i>your love redeems me</i>’) but he left out most of it, thinking proposals in the form of death re-enactments wasn’t exactly the sort of humour a seven-year-old would understand, simply described how the girl had tripped over the edge of a row of seats midway through the scene and couldn’t finish because she was laughing so much. He told Anna how he was worried about the ball because he didn’t really know how to dance properly; how of course Nina and her bunny would be friends and she should <i>definitely</i> get one, and was half way through explaining that he had to write an essay for one of his classes comparing two poets – Keats and Allen Poe – who he secretly loved but liked to complain that they were, in fact, both idiots, when the door of the studio opened and Eliza bustled in, closely followed by a scowling Lafayette.</p><p>Alexander capped his pen, glanced curiously between them both, still a little miffed that Eliza hadn’t told him about her and Maria, but it <i>was</i> her business after all so he had opened his mouth to ask what they were doing here when Lafayette bit out;</p><p>“<i>D'accord, connards,</i> we have a problem.”</p><p>“Yes,” Eliza settled down on the floor next to Alexander, patting the space next to her but Lafayette leaned against the wall, arms crossed and looking morose, “and we need to figure out what to do about it.”</p><p>“What happened?” Alexander asked, at the same time as Thomas turned around, huffing out;</p><p>“Oh, so everyone’s just going to congregate in here now? Screw my grades, I don’t need to pass anyway -”</p><p>“<i>Tais-toi, c'est important,</i>” Lafayette interrupted, glaring at him, “apparently, John has taken it upon himself to increase his own misery and go to the ball with Louise,” added a muttered, “<i>pour une putain de raison inconnue,</i>” which caused Thomas to frown.</p><p>“Okay,” Thomas said slowly, “so what’s your point? They obviously care about each other, and okay they can’t be together anymore because Louise has found her soulmate but so what? They can still go as friends, can’t they? I don’t see any problem with that.”</p><p>“Of course <i>you</i> wouldn’t,” Lafayette rolled his eyes, “you and John should make yourselves a self-sabotaging club, you two would get along well -”</p><p>“<i>Anyway,</i>” Eliza cut in, frowning reproachfully at Lafayette, “it’s a problem because it’s only going to make him feel worse than he already is – he should be trying to get <i>over</i> her, not reminding himself of all the reasons why he wants to be with her.”</p><p>“I’m still listening,” Thomas said, turning back to the music notes, “keep going I just have to do this as well.”</p><p>“Fair,” Alexander nodded, turning to Eliza, relieved that someone else agreed with him and thought that this was all a <i>terrible</i> idea, and could see through John’s insistent <i>I’m fine</i> when he clearly <i>wasn’t</i> fine, “so what should we do.”</p><p>“Okay,” Eliza shuffled back against the wall, sitting up ramrod straight and her lips pursing a little into what Alexander recognised as her now familiar ‘you all are idiots who keep running around and getting yourselves hurt and this is what we’re going to do about it’ expression; “John-getting-the-fuck-over-Louise game plan. Okay, so he obviously can’t go with her -”</p><p>“Clearly.” Lafayette sniffed, “I cannot quite believe she even agreed to this - someone needs to talk to her.”</p><p>“Yes.” Eliza nodded. “I’ll do that, and explain that it’s nothing against her but we just think it’s a bad idea for John’s sake.”</p><p>“I think she would understand,” Alexander added, “she seemed pretty nice, and she did offer to stay with him regardless of her soulmate, remember?”</p><p>Lafayette scoffed incredulously, and Eliza shot him a look. “Take personal bias out of this, please.”</p><p>Alexander frowned, eyes dancing between them then up at Thomas who must have felt his gaze, because he turned away from his notes to catch Alexander’s eye, wriggled his eyebrows a little and Alexander grinned. </p><p>“Alex, pay attention,” Eliza cuffed him around the head. </p><p>“I <i>was!</i>” he protested, and, to prove it; “John isn’t going to thank you for this, you realise. Like we don’t want him to go from being sad about Louise to hating us for keeping him away from her. I reckon one of us should pretend to be upset because we can’t take the person we want to go with and beg him to come with us instead. He will because, well, he’s too nice not to.” </p><p>“Yes, good thinking, you do that then,” Eliza nodded.</p><p>“I can’t,” Alexander said, without thinking; “I’m going with Maria,” regretted it a second later when Eliza inhaled sharply and Thomas turned around abruptly to stare at him, expression closed and impassive, the paper he had been writing on slipping off the music stand and onto the floor where he ignored it. Alexander determinedly didn’t look at him, watching Eliza hesitantly as she stuttered out a;</p><p>“You, what…?”</p><p>“<i>I’ll</i> ask him,” Lafayette said, after a beat of rather heavy silence. Everyone turned to look at him; “well,” he shrugged, “I would not even be lying.”</p><p>“Okay…yes,” Eliza said distractedly, gaze a little unfocused for a moment before she snapped back into herself. “Right, so we’ve got that sorted. Okay. Now I think we need to get him to forget about her a little -”</p><p>“Get him good and drunk,” Thomas interrupted, bending down to pick his fallen music sheet off the floor, “that always works.” Then, turning back around and Alexander wasn’t even sure he was meant to hear; “I think we could all use that.” </p><p>“I don’t think -” Eliza began, but Lafayette was nodding.</p><p>“Yes, good idea, we should have a ‘get John drunk and Louise can get screwed’ party and if he asks we pretend it is just because I felt like it.”</p><p>“He’s not going to fall for that,” Eliza said, half laughing, and Thomas snorted, glancing over his shoulder;</p><p>“Why not? This <i>is</i> Laf we’re talking about.”</p><p>“Fine,” Eliza conceded and Lafayette winked, even as he muttered; “so glad you all have the correct impression of my reputation,”  - “so just a small thing, yeah?”</p><p>“<i>Definitely,</i>” Lafayette waved an airy hand, “<i>bien sûr, ne t'inquiète pas</i> – I will just ask a couple of people.”</p><p> </p><p>A <i>couple of people</i> somehow became <i>most of their year group.</i></p><p> </p><p>Maria finally managed to drag Alexander away from the library at around eight the next evening, and when they made it back to the dorm suite, climbed the stairs up to the floor above Alexander and John’s dorm, where there was a commons and a couple of empty rooms, the corridor was packed; people sprawled out on the floor, resting against the walls or lying with their heads in each other’s laps. There was no music, as they weren’t too far from the main section of the college, and Eliza had made Lafayette promise, so there was just the low hum of drunken voices, punctured occasionally by a shriek or giggle and the tinny sound of a harmonica; a warbling discord of notes following no apparent tune. Alexander picked his way through the bodies, tripping over a few outstretched legs, though no one seemed to mind - everyone appearing a little dazed and more accommodating than usual - and stood in the door of the commons, dimly lit and slightly dingy, squinting through the people and trying to make out Lafayette, or John or someone else he recognised.</p><p>In the end, it was Angelica who found them; Maria promptly gave her a quick, terse nod, dropped Alexander’s hand faster than he could say <i>for fuck’s sake</i> and slipped off in the opposite direction. Angelica frowned after her retreating figure, grumbled in his ear over the hum; “I hope to god this wasn’t your bloody idea,” even as she dragged him by the arm over to a sofa in the corner of the room and pulled him behind it where bottles were lined up on the floor.</p><p>“Sorry, there’s only teacups,” Angelica said, wrinkling her nose a little and raising her voice a little so he could hear her, handing him one with a broken handle and a chip in the rim; “and I’d wipe it if I were you, because Martha and someone-or-other stole them from the art rooms, and apparently they use them to wash brushes or something when they’re painting -” Alexander squinted dubiously down at the cup “- so if we all drop dead before tomorrow, we’ll know why, and <i>I wouldn’t!</i>” she warned, as he reached for a bottle filled with a dull pink liquid, “that’s Laf’s mystery concoction, that’ll either kill you or you’ll have one sip and already be blasted.”</p><p>“Either way, fine by me,” Alexander shrugged, bending down and pouring himself some with difficulty, because Angelica whacked him on the shoulder in reprimand and so half of it ended up on the floor. He took a sip, then grimaced, a sickly sweet burn scotching his throat, and Angelica sniffed;</p><p>“Told you.”</p><p>He swallowed another mouthful regardless, straightened and nudged her, wondering if she had drunk enough to allow him to swing an arm around her shoulders, and she must have done, or perhaps was just feeling indulgent because she didn’t push him off. </p><p>“Where is everyone?”</p><p>“Well, John’s already plastered, which I know was the actual aim of this but still,” she wheeled around as someone stumbled against her, hissed, “watch it you fucker,” and glared after them for a moment as they tottered away. “Anyway,” she turned back to him, watched him drain the cup with a frown and a raised eyebrow, muttered, “you’ll regret that in about five minutes, god knows what he’s put in it,” and “Eliza and Laf are having their own little woe is me pity party somewhere, uh... Herc and Liz are probably fucking by now -”</p><p>Alexander snorted; “ironic seeing as he literally hadn’t touched anyone even once before Liz -”</p><p>“-trying to make up for lost time probably -”</p><p>Alexander ducked away from her, kneeling down to pour himself some more, except Angelica was clearly right, because his knees hit the ground faster than he thought they would, the floorboards rocking up to meet him like the swaying deck of a ship, and he blinked several times, trying to make them lie flat but that only made it worse so he gave up, shut his eyes for a second and reached blindly for the bottle. When he opened them again the floor was lying relatively steady, and he hesitated, staring at the open bottle in his hand, because knowing Lafayette there could be <i>anything</i> in there, but, wondering vaguely if Abigail was here too, poured himself some more anyway because <i>fuck that.</i> He pushed himself up again in time to hear, “-but I suppose the only person you really care about is -”</p><p>“Have you drunk anything at all?” he asked, before she could finish, and Angelica rolled her eyes.</p><p>“I’m not touching Laf’s crap. And <i>no</i> – someone’s got to watch out for all you idiots, normally I’d trust Eliza with that, but at the moment she’s…” Angelica waved a hand, looking a little guilty, “well, anyway -”</p><p>“I know what happened,” Alexander told her, his tongue beginning to feel thick and slightly heavy in his mouth.</p><p>“Oh,” Angelica looked at him, her expression a little hard to make out in the gloom, “well then.”</p><p>“You know,” he started, “you really don’t have to take care of -” broke off as someone knocked into him, leaning heavily on his shoulder and he looked around, slightly surprised when he saw Martha, smile soft, wide and a little droopy.</p><p>“Oh!” she said, looking down at his cup, “you’re drinking that too. Oh.” She stared blankly for a moment then; “come on, let’s dance. Do you want to dance? I want to dance.”</p><p>“Okay,” he laughed, turned to Angelica for confirmation and she shrugged a slightly exasperated <i>if you must</i> so he drained the rest of his cup, threw it down on the sofa and let Martha drag him by the hand to the other side of the room, where a boy was sitting with his back against a wall, still playing the harmonica.</p><p>“People are dancing to <i>that?</i>” Alexander asked, looking around at a few people who were clutching each other – more for support than an actual dance, it seemed – moving awkwardly around a couple who were entwined on the floor. His gaze slipped from each one, a little unseeing and hazy around the edges, and he wondered if people had always moved this slowly or if he was just <i>thinking</i> they were slow.</p><p>“Delightful,” Martha mumbled, watching them for a second then grabbed his other hand, stretched out her arms and begun to spin them both in a dizzying circle.</p><p>“This isn’t dancing!” Alexander half yelled, half laughed, stumbling and gripping Martha’s hands more firmly, the room blurring a little sickeningly around him, shapes and people and sounds all morphing into one flickering haze and; “stop, stop!” he managed, still laughing - because for some reason everything suddenly seemed very funny - pulling Martha towards him so quickly she gasped, her soft inhale turning to giggles as she collapsed against him, looped her arms around his neck and held on. They swayed there slowly, Alexander’s hands feeling slightly clumsy on her waist, his fingers oddly swollen and he had the feeling that if he pulled them off one by one they could float away from his body - he moved his thumb experimentally just to double check they were still attached. Martha sighed against him, seemed to sniff a little, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her tighter, looking over her shoulder at someone he was sure he recognised – sitting squashed on a sofa between two other people, laughing and shaking her head, and it was another minute before he realised it was Abigail, tried to place her with a memory and couldn’t really, his mind gloriously empty for once. He wasn’t too sure what he had been worrying about, because sure Abigail was pretty but that was okay because she was so <i>lovely</i> and so what was the problem?</p><p>He pressed his face into Martha’s hair instead of thinking about it; she smelled nice, sweet and maybe a little like vanilla or honeysuckle and maybe something tangy - <i>citrus?</i> -  he couldn’t really tell, and it reminded him of something but he wasn’t sure what.</p><p>“You smell -” he mumbled, trying to think, and Martha pulled her head back to look at him, her eyes half closed, smiling a little sleepily.</p><p>“I had t’use Thomas’ shower b’cause th’ girls…stupid…were usin’ mine.” She grinned, let her head fall back and sagged a little in his arms. He frowned, eyeing the curve of her neck which looked like it would be painful, so brought up an arm with a little difficulty – it felt very slow and didn’t exactly move where he wanted it to go – placed a hand on the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair and pushing against her occipital bone so she straightened again, breathed, “thanks,” but he left his hand there because her hair was so soft, and he liked how it smelled even though he wasn’t sure why because it was also making his chest ache for some reason and it was so confusing.</p><p>“You smell nice,” he told her, didn’t really think about it but she smiled wider, opened her eyes a little so she didn’t look so sleepy, lifted a hand from where she had looped her arms behind his neck and gently stroked his cheek.</p><p>“A-lex…ander,” she said slowly, drawing out his name as though it was hard to remember all of it, “you’ so sweet,” – Alexander tried to wink, ended up blinking instead, burst into a fit of giggles and Martha grinned as well, fell back against him again, said against his shirt, “what’s so funny,” and then, quieter, “I can’tell why Tom likes you s’much.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Alexander mumbled, trying to focus but for some reason whatever he had been laughing at was still funny, even though he couldn’t even <i>remember</i> it, frowning because he couldn’t understand why whatever she had said was making the knot in his chest wrench a little, even as the rest of him felt loose and floppy and <i>why</i> so he shook his head, detached himself from Martha’s embrace, patted her cheek a little dazedly, said; “m’gettin’ something more to drink, d’you want?”</p><p>Nodding when she nodded, he turned slowly and frowned, looking at all the different sofas around them, stuffed full of people, in each other’s laps, draped over the arm rests, blinking and trying to remember which one was the alcohol sofa. He was sure they had walked in a straight line to get here so beelined for the opposite end of the room, bumping into a few people and giggling again, muttering; “sorry…oh…sorry,” thinking whatever Lafayette had put in the pink thing had definitely been a good idea because he knew there was something he didn’t want to think about, knew vaguely that lots of bad things had been happening and he couldn’t remember <i>what</i> exactly but he wanted to continue not remembering, so crouched down behind the sofa when he reached it, rocked back, unsteady and uncoordinated, and so sat down heavily, blinked for a second and then stretched out an arm for the bottle. Concentrating very hard he tried to pour some into a tea cup without spilling anyway, but the liquid lurched over the edge anyway, so he pushed the cup forward instead, managed to catch some and set the bottle down again, harder than he’d meant to.</p><p>He took a sip, licked his tongue around the corners of his lips, because the sweetness was kind of nice now, and was about to take another when the cup was tugged out of his grasp.</p><p>“Hey!” he protested blearily, as Angelica came into view, kneeling down beside him, her face swaying a little – “stop movin’” he mumbled, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder, trying to steady her.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Angelica muttered, closing her eyes, pulling the cup farther out of his reach when he made to take it back, “oh no you don’t, mister. You have fixing miserable best friend duties. Not that you’re in any shape.”</p><p>“Huh?” he mumbled, trying to make her words stay still in his mind so he could think about them and work out what she meant.</p><p>Angelica sighed. “John needs you, Alex.”</p><p>“John…” he repeated, frowned, then; “oh, sad John.”</p><p>“<i>Yes,</i>” Angelica said, looking a little relieved, “very sad John. John needs a hug. Okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” he nodded slowly, “I can giv’ ‘im a hug.”</p><p>“Good,” Angelica patted his head a little, muttered; “god-fucking-damnit, Lafayette,” and then, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, “are you feeling okay? Sit here for a moment and drink this first.” She held a cup in front of his face and he frowned at it.</p><p>“What is’it?”</p><p>“Water,” she said, then, when he made a face, “smart juice. Drink up.”</p><p>“’m already smart.” He mumbled, but drank because <i>John</i> and <i>needed a hug.</i></p><p>She waited, eyes darting between him and the room every few moments, flitting quickly from person to person in a way that made his head reel a little, sipping the water that slid down his throat a lot easier than the stuff he had been drinking before, deliciously cold and slightly clarifying, and the longer he sat there the less Angelica’s face seemed to swim before him, still blurry and confusing but marginally less <i>sickening.</i></p><p>“Okay?” she said, once he drained the glass, then, when he nodded, stopped because it made him dizzy, “alright, he’s in the bathroom at the end of the corridor. Do you think you can get there? It’s very important Alex, okay?”</p><p>“’m’kay,” he nodded, repeating <i>bathroom at end of corridor, bathroom at end of corridor</i> so he wouldn’t forget, because he couldn’t think of much at the moment but he did know that Angelica was scary when she was angry. “Where’re you going?”</p><p>“I have to – oh, I am going to kill Lafayette! I have to rescue Eliza because when I passed her trying to find you she and Maria were yelling at each other again, and I think she needs to go to bed,” she said, and the sentence was too complicated for Alexander to make much out of it, confused because why <i>again</i> - were they yelling before? Angelica slapped her knees, stood abruptly, jerking him out of his stupor; “right, ready?”</p><p>“Huh?” he asked dubiously, looking up at her.</p><p>“For fuck’s – <i>Alexander.</i> Come on. John, remember?”</p><p>“Oh,” he nodded quickly, thought; <i>bathroom at end of corridor,</i> held up his hand, which she grabbed, hauled him upright, shook her head when he swayed a little despite his muttered; “’m fine, totally fine.”</p><p>“<i>Promise</i> me you’ll go straight to him,” she glared at him, “he <i>needs you,</i> okay?” Then, again, “oh, I’m going to kill Lafayette.”</p><p>“I’m going, ‘m going,” Alexander told her, “you go ‘nd find ‘Liza,” then, remembering suddenly, “wait, Martha wanted more t’drink -”</p><p>“I think she’s better off without,” Angelica said firmly, gave him a shove in the direction of the door and so he walked forward obediently, muttering, “bathroom at end of corridor, bathroom at end of corridor,” not really thinking or seeing anything, too focused on <i>getting to the door</i> and out into the corridor that he crashed right into someone, got another sudden wave of the vanillery, tangy, sweet smell that had been in Martha’s hair – except this couldn’t be Martha because the chest his nose was now buried in definitely wasn’t soft and forgiving, was distinctly solid – and <i>coconut</i> he realised suddenly, that’s what it was, looked up and something in him warmed instinctively, catching Thomas’ smile and grinning back, loose and happy as he felt one Thomas’ hand close instantly on his hip, steadying him as he tottered there.</p><p>“’Alright?” Thomas murmured, leaning down to mumble it in his ear and he nodded, because he <i>was</i> suddenly, thought vaguely that there was something he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t think what, reached out to grip Thomas’ arm because everything was still swaying a little, his fingers pressing into firm muscle and he was trailing his hand over Thomas’ bicep and up to his shoulder - not sure if he was allowed to do that or not but he liked how he could feel the muscles bunching together as Thomas’ tensed when he dug his fingernails in a little. Suddenly Thomas was bending down, two strong hands were gripping the soft flesh under his thighs, lifting him up and he wrapped his legs around Thomas’ waist automatically before he could process what had happened - somehow he was now looking <i>down</i> at Thomas, not up, one hand cupping his cheek, almost nose to nose. He couldn’t see the rest of the room, was <i>sure</i> whatever he had meant to be doing was important, but right now nothing mattered very much – “I was lookin’ for you,” Thomas mumbled, “Laf said I’was too drunk ‘nd I shouldn’t look for you b’cause...ah, <i>fuck, Alex</i> -” he broke off, groaning a little, his fingers digging harder into Alexander’s thighs, and Alexander was pressing a thumb into his bottom lip, frowning a little because something in his brain told him he <i>shouldn’t</i> but Thomas was looking at him in a way that made him want to – </p><p>“Alexander!” </p><p>He felt something whack sharply against his side and looked down to find Angelica glaring up at him, turning to Thomas with her palm raised, striking his arm and he winced, grumbled, “what ‘as that for?” letting his hands slip from Alexander’s thighs up to his waist so that he slid down Thomas’ front, straightening his legs and leaning against him for support, both of them stumbling back a little and frowning at Angelica as she turned to glare at him.</p><p>“I gave you <i>one</i> job Alex –  <i>I am going to kill him</i> – and <i>you!</i>” she rounded on Thomas slapping his arm to punctuate her words; “stop... <i>distracting... him</i> -”</p><p>“What’ve I done?” Thomas yelped, stepping back from Alexander and frowning, and Alexander remembered suddenly, panicked a little because <i>fuck fuck fuck</i> and Angelica <i>was</i> angry now, and <i>bathroom at end of corridor,</i> so; “sorry, sorry, ‘m actually going now,” he said hurriedly, but, because he was still feeling hot and heavy and everything seemed like a good idea, leant up against Thomas’ front again, treading his hands around the back of his neck and pulling him down so he could reach his ear, only meant to mumble “<i>te ves bien cuando estoy borracha,</i>” but misjudged the distance and somehow ended up with his lips pressed to the soft skin of Thomas’ ear lobe instead, and Thomas’ hands were suddenly on his waist again, gripping tight and a little desperately, so he bit down lightly on the soft flesh, felt Thomas shudder a little against him before he pulled away, made properly for the door this time, didn’t think much else except <i>bathroom at end of corridor.</i></p><p> </p><p>It took him a little longer than necessary to get there because everyone was still sprawled in the hall and he had to pick his way through the tangle of legs. It was hard, because he couldn’t really tell which parts were floor and which parts were leg, but he got there in the end, walked down to the far end of the corridor where there wasn’t as many people and it was quieter; not as warm or suffocating so he took a few deep breaths before he went in, waited until he could see properly then pushed open the door.</p><p>It was too bright inside, the light harsh and not as forgiving as the dim glow in the corridor, the tiles white and glaring, all mirrors and polished sinks and the white paint of the bathroom stalls, and there was John at the other end, slumped against the wall with his head between his knees. Alexander’s heart broke a little – more sobering than anything else had been that evening, stepped in and let the door swing shut beside him. John raised his head as he knelt down on the floor in front of him, let Alexander cup his face between his hands and press a kiss to his forehead, looked at him sadly, eyes downcast and red rimmed as Alexander murmured, “<i>no ‘stés triste, cariño… l’mundo ‘iempre seguirá girando, si?” – don’t be sad, darling, the world will always keep spinning.</i></p><p>John nodded, gazing at him a little helplessly, irises blurring a little as his eyes pooled with tears, and; “no, no, <i>querido,</i>” Alexander muttered, gently brushed his thumbs under John’s eyes, catching the tears that fell; “<i>no llores, está bien, estará bien.” – don’t cry, it’s okay, it will be okay.</i></p><p>“I love her,” John whispered, and Alexander gripped his face tighter, pressed his lips against his forehead again, closed his eyes and mumbled, “I know, <i>yo sé, querido, yo sé,</i>” against John’s skin, wished everything didn’t hurt as much as it did and that he knew how to make it better.</p><p>He wobbled suddenly, rocking on his heels, realised he was leaning most of his weight against John and so pushed himself back until he was against the adjacent wall, legs outstretched, slumping down a little so his foot was knocking against John’s, and they sat there silently for what seemed like an age, Alexander’s mind gradually growing clearer and clearer, aware now of how cold the tiles were against the backs of his calves, the knot in his chest pulling taught again, a lump rising in his throat because it had been so much nicer when he <i>hadn’t</i> remembered. John was looking at him, John, who he loved so very, <i>very</i> much – who was the one person he could confidently call something close to family, who had saved his life a little even though John didn’t really know it, whose mother called him <i>Alex baby</i> when she fussed over him - made sure he ate, scolded them both when he and John had been caught smoking behind the bathrooms at school when they were fifteen, who had taken them out to dinner when Alexander had got the letter telling him he had received a scholarship to Princeton, flapped her hand in front of her face when her eyes had watered, said; “I <i>told</i> you, you stupidly brilliant boy,” wrapped him in a hug so tight and so distinctly motherly it made his chest ache because the last time he’d been hugged like that he had just turned twelve years old, and his own mother was leaving for work for the last time.</p><p>John, whose hurt and pain Alexander would have gladly taken from him and bore instead if he had been able – because John was too good to suffer.</p><p>He was staring at the opposite wall, face blank and a little foreign, so Alexander nudged his toe against John’s ankle, wanted to go to him, hold him until he was whole again, but didn’t know if he was strong enough to keep all the broken pieces together. He waited until John swivelled his head against the tiles so they were facing each other and told him, even though it didn’t sound like much, even though he knew it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference, but he meant it and he was; “I’m sorry.”</p><p>John was quiet for a moment, gazing at him a little wretchedly, took a shuddering breath and seemed to let go of something. “Yeah, me too,” he said eventually, and then, a while later, “I never thought soulmates would hurt this much.”</p><p>“Neither did I,” Alexander said, truthfully, because even though he had seen his mamá, seen what happened to Jane, he never <i>had,</i> he realised, never imagined it <i>would</i> hurt this much. “Do you think you’ll always love her?”</p><p>John shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe always, even if only a little.”</p><p>“What does it feel like?” Alexander asked, before he could stop himself, knew instantly he’d asked the wrong thing by the way John frowned, mouth drawn in and a little puckered, small lines appearing between his brows and eyes shadowed by something that seemed to be toeing a precarious line between amusement and disappointment;</p><p>“I hope you’re not serious.”</p><p>“Please,” he asked again, <i>had</i> to know, “please just tell me what it feels like,” hoping against hope that John wouldn’t say what Alexander thought he was going to say, because that would mean Alexander was right; and that love meant the clenching, suffocating thing in his chest, meant his mamá’s arms around him, meant the light through his curtains back home and waking to hear his mamá pottering around the garden or singing softly from the kitchen, meant Pete holding out a cigarette for him, already lit, saying, <i>it’ll be better one day, Lex, I promise,</i> meant John coming up to him at orientation when he was thirteen, saying <i>hey, I like your cardigan,</i> meant laughing breathlessly, lying on the floor of their dorm room with Laf and Eliza and Angelica, meant that euphoric feeling he got when he was writing something he <i>knew</i> was good, meant opening one of Anna’s letters, meant little Nina, bobbing against the surface of the water as he dropped in little flakes of cereal for her, meant his mamá’s poetry book, meant “<i>Tchaikovsky is practically a god, yes?</i>” and “<i>Alex, please stay,</i>” meant the sound of a piano, meant warm arms around his waist in the morning, meant “<i>Alex, darlin’ for fuck’s sake</i> -” meant –</p><p>“What, to love someone?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>The look John gave him hidden, strange and closed off, somewhere between disbelief and annoyance and maybe something like endearment, or maybe pity. “Don’t you know?”</p><p>“No?” He said, even though, maybe, well –</p><p>John stared at him for a second longer, smiled a little then; “you know, you’re really stupid for having such a good brain.” He turned his head so he was facing the opposite wall, was quiet for a moment, before; “it feels like this.”</p><p>Alexander watched him as he nodded absently to himself, then got up, slowly and with a slight stagger, and left without looking back, the door swinging softly shut and leaving Alexander alone, slumped against the tiles.</p><p>
  <i>It feels like this.</i>
</p><p>This? This hurt. This was <i>tiring.</i> This was <i>painful.</i></p><p>Holding the feeling against himself; of having hands that were always aching to reach out, having to force them to remain by his sides because <i>he would never feel the same way and he couldn’t ruin everything.</i> Alexander had always given his love freely, loved easily and often; poured it over his mamá who was gone, as a little baby with flailing fists, trying to love a father who was cruel and didn’t want him, a brother who was taken away, a cousin who couldn’t live with himself, families who kicked him out, to John and Eliza and Maria, Laf, Herc and <i>Thomas</i> – and so he couldn’t let himself be loved in return, not completely, because he had given so much of himself to every person he’d ever known and so many of them were <i>gone,</i> so there wasn’t much of himself left anymore. And Thomas, who cared about him, Alexander knew he did - even though Thomas would never look at him the way Alexander wanted him to, and he <i>couldn’t feel like this</i> because look what had happened to the rest of them. Where was his mamá, and Jamie and his father and Pete now, and so he <i>couldn’t,</i> because the people he loved never seemed to stick around.</p><p>Because he did, he <i>loved Thomas.</i> Of course he did.</p><p>The tiles were slipping, melting together and constricting around him, tighter and tighter and his heart was beating so loud it was deafening, pattering in his chest and fingers and the soles of his feet. It had always been Thomas, even when he hadn’t realised, even if he didn’t want it to be, even when he pretended it wasn’t - maybe always would be, just a little. It was never that Alexander hadn’t loved him – it was that he was afraid. How many times can you love someone? At some point in their life, everyone loves for the last time.</p><p> </p><p>Sometime, maybe an hour later, he dragged himself up off the floor, legs stiff and numb from the cold even though he couldn’t really feel it. He made his way through the corridor and out into the stairwell, blessedly cold and dark, started to climb the stairs up to the level above against his better judgement, hoping that Thomas would still be downstairs as he knocked on the door softly just to check, ready to turn around and dash back in the direction he’d just come if Thomas was inside.</p><p>Fate must have been on his side for once, however, because there was no answer, so he pushed open the door of Thomas’ empty room. It felt strange, without Thomas in it, oddly alien and not nearly as comforting as Alexander had hoped, but still familiar; Thomas’ books piled on the desk and against the wall, sheets in a tangled heap at the end of the bed, clothes and papers and pens strewn over the floor, Jane’s cardigan lying on his pillow, a large opened cardboard box in one corner that Alexander knew held Jane’s old things. The curtains were open and the light from the moon and the courtyard lamp downstairs in the quad filtered through, lighting everything up in a shadowy molten grey – and catching the water in Nina’s bowl, casting little dancing speckles against the glass.</p><p>“Nina,” Alexander mumbled, lifting her bowl carefully off the window ledge and settling down on the floor by Thomas’ bed with the bowl in his lap, “Nina, <i>todo duele, por qué? Extraño a tanta gente.” - everything hurts, Nina, I miss so many people.</i> </p><p>Nina swam around silently; Alexander watched her circle the glass, thinking how he’d once read that the memories of goldfish were so short they could only remember the past three times around their bowl, wouldn’t remember swimming around every day, all day. “<i>Me recuerdas,” – do you remember me?</i> he asked, wondering what <i>not remembering</i> would feel like and thought it might feel nice, except then he wouldn’t remember anything at all and maybe that would be worse, not better, so, softly, “I hope you remember me.”</p><p>Nina had stopped swimming, resting quietly by the edge of the bowl where his hand was cupping the outside; and “<i>por qué nunca dejamos de extrañar a la gente?” – why do we never stop missing people,</i> he asked, half expecting a reply even though none came, obviously – thinking about it and suddenly, gripped with fear - not entirely sober and mind still a little lurching – “did you have a family, Nina? Did we take you away from them? I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t have, that was cruel.”</p><p>He hated that it was the thought of <i>that</i> - of Nina, swimming around her bowl and thinking of a mother who, in Alexander’s mind, she had loved very dearly, and who she missed - which made his eyes fill with tears, throat painfully tight because it <i>hurt</i> to miss people and even a fish shouldn’t suffer through that. </p><p>“I’ll be your family, okay, <i>mi pequeña, si?</i>” he told her earnestly, and sat there for a while, softly and absentmindedly tapping a finger against the edge of the bowl, thinking and thinking and <i>thinking.</i></p><p> </p><p>It was around 3:06 in the morning when Alexander decided he was done moping. He wasn’t twelve years old anymore. He knew what disappointment tasted like, he’d appeased the devil before and he could do it again; when he was three and his father had knocked his mamá unconscious, taken Jamie away, dragged him by his arm screaming and kicking and biting, caught the toe of his boot into Alexander’s stomach when he’d grabbed Jamie’s other arm, tried to pull him back because <i>no</i> and his <i>big brother</i> – kicked him so hard he’d been sick, winded and choking for air. His mamá hadn’t moved off the floor for two days so he’d kept watch beside her, made her cups of cold sugar tea because he didn’t know how to work the kettle and fed it to her with a spoon until she could sit up by herself. </p><p>Each time his father left he and his mamá would pick themselves up off the floor, fetch some antiseptic and gauze if one of them was bleeding, and his mamá would say; “<i>consigamos unas patatas fritas esta noche para cenar</i>” and they’d walk down to the little fish and chip shop down by the docks, buy a portion of chips rolled up in newspaper and eat it on the pier – feet dangling in the water and licking salt and vinegar off their fingers. </p><p>When his mamá had died he’d gone to the hospital where she’d worked and asked for a job, any job at all – had worked back to back eleven hour shifts cleaning dried blood and gunk off surgical instruments until he could afford to engrave his mamá’s name on the small headstone in the corner of the village graveyard. </p><p>When his father had come back for the last time he told the nurse who stitched up the gash in his forehead, and later the doctor who set his broken wrist, and later still another doctor who x-rayed his ribs, that he’d fallen down the stairs – because pushed and fallen are almost synonyms really so what was one word for another and if he said it enough he could almost believe it. </p><p>When he had stumbled home, tired from work and no food or sleep, and there was her house – his mamá’s –  their <i>home:</i> a replica of Lieve Verschuier’s ‘The Great Fire of London,’ he’d waited a week then picked his way through the rubble for anything left behind – his mamá’s earrings, her only jewellery, some vintage spoons (he sold those), the flour tin, ironically, and some pots and pans, too rusty and scorched to be of any use, handles mostly burnt off – used half his money from work to buy a bus ticket to the other side of the island, hunted down Pete and begged for a room. </p><p>When Pete had taught him how poor, wretched, forsaken people survived, made him lose himself a little because he knew it would have made his mamá ashamed of him; how to steal a loaf of bread without getting caught, how to charm a lady into giving him a cigarette, how to fill the hole in his belly with wine instead of food, he’d only lifted a shoulder, taken another sip and told himself that this was his life now. </p><p>When Pete had died as well he’d buried him in a cardboard coffin because that was all he could afford, purposely didn’t look at his bruised, swollen purpling neck or the tattoos on his arms that would never turn to colour -  had snuck on a cargo boat bound to America, stayed hidden for a week in the hull, sleeping between stacked crates holding tea leaves, spices, cotton and coconuts, which he’d eaten, stabbing them with a blunt knife Pete had told him to keep tucked into his shoe. Their sweet, nutty, honeyed smell had kept him focused; strong enough to allow him forget about the salty tang of sea air he knew was all around him, push away a darkness so absolute it was almost crushing, and so he when he arrived at the docks he didn’t panic, but walked into the first building he came to – a reporting office – asked for a job, written them a piece so good they had given him one, because his mamá had given him the greatest gift she could; had read him poem after poem, filled his brain with words so he could sew sentences together seamlessly.</p><p>When he lost the last thing from home – his mamá’s poetry book - he told himself it was just a book, and to prove it had saved for a month then bought himself another one. </p><p>When he was kicked out of his fifth place – sleeping in rooms belonging to families desperate for a little extra money, and desperate people are often unkind - he’d asked a lady at the reporting office for help, had written into every school from the list she gave him until he was offered a scholarship, because if he could do anything, he could write.</p><p>When things happened to him he got up and <i>kept going</i> because if he didn’t he would just be his three year old’s ghost, sitting by his mamá on the floor of their kitchen. </p><p>And so loving someone he could never have was no different. No different at all. Tomorrow he would go down to breakfast as usual, listen to Lafayette grumbling about everything as he always did, fall for Thomas a little more and pretend he wasn’t, just like normal; the world would keep on turning and he would keep on living, because he had to. </p><p><i>“Nosotras debemos seguir moviéndonos,” – we must keep moving,</i> his mamá had told him once, sitting on the pier, brushing the extra salt off her hands, screwing up the empty newspaper into a ball; “<i>dolerá al principio, pero aprenderemos a llevarlo,” – it will hurt at first, but we will learn to bare it.</i></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter title is a quote by Anaïs Nin. </p><p>Someone said that Tchaikovsky is to Thomas what Hamilton is to us and I just - <i>yes.</i> Just want to mention that I'm very, very grateful to all of you who have been taking the time to have little conversations with me about this. It's so interesting to hear what you're thinking and the fact that you even care enough about this to write to me means more than I can say 💛</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. they aren't pretty; nothing holy ever is</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>borrowed time, seven deadly sins and the calm before the storm.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>there's a verse that goes before this from Thomas' perspective if you felt like reading. It's called 'How We Decorate Pain' (I don't know how to tag, sorry).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alexander woke slowly, the sunlight falling across his face so that his eyelids glowed with a reddish tint, the blankets pressing into him with a comfortable warm weight. Except it wasn’t just the blanket; there was a thigh thrown over his own, his feet tangling between someone else’s, and an arm wrapped around his waist, cocooning him against a firm chest.</p><p>He opened one eye cautiously, still only half conscious, and scrutinised the small section of the floor that was visible to him – not a lot considering most of his face was squished into the pillow. It was incongruously messy, which was strange because his and John’s room was always neat. There was a pile of folders balanced against the wall alongside a teetering stack of hardcover books, some of which looked rather worn, with loose pages and fraying spines. Clothes were scattered here and there. Perplexing, mismatched assortments; a single sock, a silk bow-tie, a pair of dark leather oxfords with the laces tied together and a pair of black jeans that were turned inside out. A number of other strange things were mixed in with the jumble: a percussion triangle that was missing its stick, a couple of bent metal hangers, a squashed paper coffee cup and a dying cactus in a small terracotta pot. Alexander frowned and squinted at the book spines that weren’t frayed to the point of intelligibility; ‘A History of Western Music,’ ‘Scholars of the Law,’ and ‘The Tchaikovsky Papers.’</p><p>Alexander’s frown deepened a little and he shifted, his attempt to turn around made difficult when Thomas’ arm only tightened around his waist. </p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Alexander muttered, aimed a kick at Thomas’ shin and missed, so elbowed him instead. Thomas made a muffled disgruntled noise into Alexander’s neck and didn’t move. </p><p><i>“Te moverias,”</i> Alexander rubbed his eyes, listening to the faint sounds of doors slamming as everyone else in the dorms moved about, footsteps echoing along the corridor outside and the low murmur of voices. When he got no response, he elbowed Thomas in the ribs again; “we have class, you lazy piece of shit.”</p><p>“Mmh, shut’it,” Thomas mumbled, voice sleepy and a little thick, “let’s skip.”</p><p>“I think the fuck not,” Alexander wriggled more forcefully, managed somehow to turn onto his back – realising too late that he should have stayed where he was because now Thomas was lying half on top of him. He swallowed, tried not to think about how he had missed this; how easy it had been to grow accustomed to sleeping beside Thomas in Virginia, how Thomas’ reluctance to wake was unfortunately kind of endearing rather than annoying, which it really should be. Alexander glanced over at Nina, who was swimming around the bottom of the bowl, nosing at the rocks that lined the floor.</p><p>It wasn’t that he had been <i>avoiding</i> Thomas after Saturday, but just hadn’t been going out of his way to run into him. Or turning in the opposite direction whenever he <i>did</i> see him. Whatever. Same difference.  </p><p>But yesterday, missing Nina, (she at least didn’t make his insides squirm uncomfortably) he’d waited until he knew for certain Thomas had a class – ‘International Relations,’ which he knew Thomas loved, so it was unlikely that he would miss it. However when Alexander had pushed open the door of Thomas’ dorm room it hadn’t been empty. Thomas was sitting on the floor by Jane’s box, knees drawn up to his chest and looking so lost and miserable Alexander had knelt down beside him without even thinking about it, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, scolded him gently even as he reached out to cup Thomas’ cheek;</p><p><i>“Amor, por qué?</i> You shouldn’t open it if you know it’ll make you feel like this.”</p><p>Thomas had pressed his face into Alexander’s neck, mumbled; “but I missed her,” against the collar of his shirt so Alexander held him tighter, told him he was an idiot, because he <i>was,</i> and silently berated himself for being the most selfish person in existence. He’d left Thomas alone to deal with this simply because he was being a wimp.</p><p>Thomas had offered his hand when Alexander had asked what he had unwrapped, little fingernail marks ingrained into the swell of his thenar from where he’d balled his fist around a locket, leaning his head back against the edge of the bed and staring at the tangled chain sitting on his own outstretched palm a little blankly, perhaps unseeing, or perhaps remembering who had worn it.  </p><p>Alexander actually recognised the locket – it was the same one Jane was wearing in the photograph pinned above Thomas’ desk that Alexander had noticed the first time he’d ever been in Thomas’ room.</p><p>“You should wear it,” Alexander told him after a moment, finally dragging his eyes away from the delicate floral inlays carved into the smooth metal, swallowing thickly because it reminded him of being twelve years old; dithering outside a beaten-down jewellers shop in the village near Pete’s place, smoking his way through cigarette after cigarette and holding his mamá’s earrings in his fist. He had to sell them; they had no money for rent. He’d done it in the end; slammed the earrings down on the counter without looking at them, bitten the inside of his cheek until he could taste his own blood filling his mouth – grating and a little sickening – given the money to Pete later and then got drunk enough to convince himself that it didn’t hurt as much as it did.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You should wear it,” he repeated, “it feels better when you wear her cardigan, yeah? Like you’re keeping little parts of her close.”</p><p>Thomas nodded mutely, and didn’t resist when Alexander leaned forward and fastened the chain around his neck, only reached up and tucked it underneath his shirt.</p><p>“I didn’t do anything,” Alexander had frowned when Thomas thanked him, because he <i>hadn’t.</i> Thomas was looking at him in a way that made his heart drop a little bit, left him feeling slightly light headed and woozy, so he reached out for another item in the hope that it would distract them both. That was a mistake, however, because Alexander had stared at photos of Thomas, <i>little</i> Thomas - with a small button nose and wild hair and a grin that hadn’t changed over twenty years - and fell a little more in love with him. Worse still, he hadn’t been paying attention, too busy looking at Anna, at Jane and the rest of Thomas’ family so couldn’t properly consider what the request entailed when Thomas had muttered out of nowhere, “stay?” had yawned, added; “it’s late, you’ll wake John,” and “so clumsy, you’ll trip over your own feet,” that Alexander had agreed without meaning to even though he promised himself it <i>wouldn’t happen again.</i> </p><p>Sleeping in the same bed as someone you were trying and failing to accumulate reasons <i>not</i> to like was never a good idea. Especially someone who didn’t seem to know the meaning of personal space and somehow spent half the night on top of you rather than staying safely on their side of the bed – who thought of you in a strictly platonic sense even when <i>your</i> thoughts were so far from platonic there wasn’t even a cause for comparison. When that <i>someone</i> moulded themselves to your back the second you slipped under the covers, only grinned into your neck when you told them to <i>shove the fuck off</i> and muttered; ‘no, you smell good.’ </p><p>It was the last time, Alexander resolved, <i>promised,</i> before he had fallen asleep. Besides, it was for Thomas really, because he was missing Jane and needed him, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t said <i>no.</i> </p><p> </p><p>Alexander let another minute trickle by, telling himself that if this was the last time he may as well enjoy it while it lasted. He waited until the noise in the hall had died down a little, meaning most people had already moved off to breakfast, then let his hand drift slowly under the covers until he brushed the tips of Thomas’ fingers, splayed protectively over his stomach, tugged on his forefinger in a small attempt to get his attention; “you do realise we have Progressive HR soon?”</p><p>“So?” Thomas pulled his head back a fraction, somehow still managing to look alluringly roguish even with half his hair tangling across his face and his eyes heavy-lidded from sleep. He shot Alexander a devilish grin he determinedly ignored and said; “Laf can give us his notes.”</p><p>“Laf’s notes are <i>terrible,”</i> Alexander grumbled without much bite because in all honesty going to class was the last thing he wanted to do right now; “half of it is always in French.”</p><p>“I’ll translate for you,” Thomas yawned widely, didn’t make any more effort to move and Alexander didn’t protest. </p><p>“Besides,” Thomas added around another yawn, “do you know who’s giving the lecture?” He slipped his hand almost teasingly under Alexander’s tee-shirt, dragged his nails lightly across his stomach. Alexander swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry, the muscles of his stomach tensing with an involuntary shiver under Thomas’ touch. He stared fixedly out the window, thinking that if god was real then he was an asshole, because this was just unfair. He took a breath and said, a little shakily;</p><p>“Who, Burr?”</p><p>
  <i>“C'est exact.”</i>
</p><p>Alexander had to close his eyes because mumbled French at this time in the morning was something he was completely unequipped to deal with. Thomas shuffled forwards again, pressed his nose into Alexander’s shoulder and settled down, somehow forgetting to remove his hand. Now all of Alexander’s attention was pinpointed on the heat bleeding off Thomas’ palm on his stomach, his breath now coming in short little bursts, which this was ridiculous because Thomas’ appeared to be falling asleep again; “we’d be losin’ brain cells if we went, so we’re really doin’ ourselves a favour.”</p><p>“Since when have you been so apathetic about attendance?” Alexander huffed out, a little breathless, wriggling again to make Thomas pay attention, “what happened to having a meltdown if you’re ten minutes late?”</p><p>“I don’t have a <i>meltdown,”</i> Thomas protested indignantly, and Alexander scoffed, bit back a smile that faded a little when Thomas added, offhand and still sleepy; “besides, I’ve missed this.”</p><p>“Missed what?”</p><p>Thomas was quiet for a minute, smothered a soft groan when Alexander kicked his shin, removed his hand – finally – and rolled off him a little, now talking to the ceiling; “you in the morning.”</p><p>Alexander swallowed painfully, took a breath and tried to sound incredulous and teasing rather than shaky and desperate; “what,” he turned his head so his right cheek was resting on the pillow and he was facing Thomas, “me constantly telling you to get the fuck up?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Thomas grinned, nudged Alexander’s hip gently, “little gremlin.”</p><p>“Am <i>not,”</i> Alexander rolled his eyes, ignored Thomas’ lingering hand, “not my fault you’re fucking lazy.”</p><p> </p><p>He told himself they would just skip breakfast, <i>only</i> breakfast, not class. His resolve was clearly rather weak, however, because eight o’clock came and went and neither of them made any attempt to move. He went to get them both some coffee at some point, picked up some leftover cinnamon rolls from the hall and they stayed in bed well past any excusable time; Thomas reading out loud from ‘A Modern History of Japan’ (they’re next debate was on the first world war) while Alexander took notes on the back of one of Thomas’ discarded composition papers. </p><p>“We need specifics on their monarchy,” Alexander murmured after a while, glancing over the notes they had compiled so far and frowning, “We can’t argue about their involvement if we don’t have a proper understanding of their governmental values.”</p><p>“Mmh,” Thomas nodded absently, taking a sip of coffee and placing the cup on the table by his bed. “I think I might actually have…” he leaned over the edge of the mattress, his body twisted precariously as he shuffled through the haphazard pile of books and papers to find what he was looking for. Stretching further, reaching for a stack of papers closer to the wall his shirt slipped a little, riding up over one hip and leaving his lower ribs exposed.</p><p>“Got it…I think,” he muttered after a second’s more rummaging, squinting at a crumpled photocopy of a chapter – someone’s notes already lining the margins. “Yeah, this looks like it could have some…we can skim it, anyway,” he added, flipping through the pages quickly before leaning his elbow against the mattress to push himself into a seated position, but Alexander wasn’t listening, was staring at the tattoo his shirt had revealed –</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>“What?” Thomas glanced over at him, almost sitting properly again, caught the line of Alexander’s gaze and froze, almost against his will, repeated, voice a little shaky; “what is it?” </p><p>Alexander opened his mouth a fraction, paused for a second, his eyes still trained on Thomas’ skin. His hand drifted out before he’d properly considered the decision, and he traced a finger over the inky, spiralling hibiscus bush that was climbing in tendrils from Thomas’ hip, encircling his waist and licking at the edges of his ribs.</p><p>Thomas seemed to be holding his breath. The second Alexander moved his hand away Thomas yanked his shirt back down again, gaze averted. Alexander frowned, feeling slightly guilty; he shouldn’t have touched it, that was wrong of him – but he could focus properly. A memory he hadn’t thought about in years was curling through his mind like smoke; becoming clearer and more distinct, even if the exact details were still a little vague.</p><p>“What is it?” Thomas asked again when Alexander still didn’t say anything, “why are you looking at me like that?”</p><p>“There was a hibiscus plant growing just outside our front door,” Alexander said slowly, suddenly feeling slightly disoriented, as though he was simultaneously standing in front of his old home even while still sitting beside Thomas in bed. Perhaps there was still a part of him that had never left the island.</p><p>“Really? What a coincidence.” It came out dry, slightly resigned, perhaps a little relieved.</p><p>“Not really.” Alexander shrugged, trying to shake the feeling. There were some things he didn’t allow himself to remember. It was easier like that. “Hibiscus is a common flower you know, especially around South America and the Caribbean.” It was true; there had been hibiscus plants everywhere back home, growing up the sides of buildings, their roots cracking the concrete pavements. Some people even considered them weeds. </p><p>“You know they have a lot of medicinal properties? Once, when I was about three or four my father locked me outside, and mamá had been knocked unconscious so she didn’t realise. Anyway I was out there in the rain for hours and got really sick, so she made me this tea with the flowers and something else, honey, I think or maybe lemon.”</p><p>“Oh.” Thomas was looking at him strangely, and Alexander suddenly felt his cheeks redden.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he said quickly, “it was ages ago, it doesn’t matter anymore.” He had never been able to stomach the sympathy people seemed to think was an obligatory reaction. It was the same look every time, the little side head tilt, small crease between eyebrows, mouth turned into a little frown of concern. He knew people meant well, but still it irked him, made his stomach twist a little in annoyance. Saying sorry wouldn’t erase the fact that it had happened.</p><p>“Okay,” Thomas nodded a little, didn’t say anything, only settled back down and started to skim through the chapter he had picked up off the floor. After a moment of silence he said, voice casual and a little distant, except that he refused to look up, “do you think you’d hate your soulmate, if you met them?”</p><p>“Huh?” Alexander looked up from his notes, “what do you mean?”</p><p>“Because,” Thomas hesitated a fraction before he replied, speaking slowly as though he was taking great care with the words he placed together. “Because all the tattoos would remind you of things. Like, every time you looked at them you’d remember another thing that perhaps… I don’t know,” he rubbed a hand over his face, eyes narrowed a little and undercut with a hint of distress. “I’m, I don’t think I’m saying it very well.”</p><p>Alexander waited but when Thomas didn’t continue; “you mean, like what if I look at a tattoo and see my father or something?”</p><p>“Yeah…” Thomas shrugged a little. “Yeah, I guess.”</p><p>“But I hated my father, so why would my soulmate have tattoos of him? Wouldn’t they have tattoos of things I’ve loved?”</p><p>“Yeah, but what if a tattoo makes you think of one thing, and then from that you remember a bunch of other details. Like your tattoo here.” He tapped his side where the hibiscus plant was.</p><p>“My tattoo?”</p><p>“Well, mine,” Thomas corrected himself quickly, his cheeks colouring. </p><p>Alexander frowned, considering. “Maybe,” he said slowly, regretting it when Thomas looked up at him, suddenly, and for the first time Alexander caught his expression. </p><p>“I don’t think I’d hate them,” he said quickly, hurrying on when Thomas raised a single eyebrow in scepticism, “because isn’t that the same for everyone? Like when you meet <i>your</i> soulmate all you’re going to be reminded of is Jane.”</p><p>“I suppose,” Thomas frowned a little, a small crease of doubt puckering his forehead, “I hadn’t really thought…” then, “why?” he burst out suddenly, the hand that was holding the chapter shaking a little, “what’s the point of that? Like I always thought your soulmate was meant to be…you know. Be, well, your <i>soulmate.</i> Not someone who’s decorated in all the things you’re trying to forget.”</p><p>“Yes,” Alexander said carefully, picking at a feather that was poking out of the coverlet as he tried to think. “But love isn’t only supposed to be about good things, right? Isn’t it about acceptance as well? Like, I don’t know, isn’t your soulmate supposed to help you heal from...everything? Because they carry it for you, in a way. Or not,” he added quickly, not really sure if he was making sense. Probably not, he usually wasn’t.</p><p>Thomas looked up at him, nodded a little. Alexander swallowed as Thomas’ gaze drifted over his face, looked down and said quickly, before he could regret it; “mamá said once that she never hated her tattoos, even though my father was... you know, him. She said they helped her to remember that he was human too, that he also suffered.”</p><p>“But…” Thomas cut his gaze away, to the window, to Nina. “But you haven’t changed your mind yeah? You’d rather not know who your soulmate was?”</p><p>Alexander looked at Thomas’ profile, all of it familiar; the curve of his nose, crease at the corner of his eyes that crinkled up when he smiled. The Orien’s belt of freckles along his cheek. “No,” he said, didn’t say, <i>I’d rather have you.</i> “No, I wouldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>They were midway through unwrapping another item from Jane’s box of things, about half an hour later when they were both bored of Japanese politics and sick of their debating points, when the door opened and Lafayette stalked in without knocking, closely followed by John.</p><p>“Should I even bother to ask why neither of you were in class today?” Then, to Thomas, <i>“à moins que vous ne le baisiez, je serai vraiment en colère.”</i></p><p>Thomas lifted a shoulder. “I guess that means you’re mad then.”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Lafayette muttered, and John caught Alexander’s eye, raised his eyebrows in a silent <i>everything okay?</i> Alexander nodded and gave him a small smile.</p><p>“I took notes for you,” John said quietly, as Lafayette’s voice rose a little shrilly. He stepped up to the bed and reached out to tug on Alexander’s hand, “not that you’ll consider them good notes. Also I came to fetch you, are you free? Let’s go.”</p><p>“Go where?” Alexander asked, slightly perplexed.</p><p>“Shopping,” John made a face, “it’s the ball tonight, remember? Or had you conveniently forgotten?”</p><p>“No,” Alexander lied, “and I am <i>not</i> going shopping.”</p><p>“Oh come <i>on,</i>” John wheedled, “I need you to help me with something. Besides we can stop by the post office so you can get stamps for your letter – and besides I need to stock up on chocolate.”</p><p>“Fine,” Alexander agreed reluctantly, “but only because of the post office. And I feel like some salted caramel.”</p><p>“Yes, see, who needs a law degree when you can win arguments just as easily with temptation.”</p><p>“That wasn’t an <i>argument,</i>” Alexander started, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Oh, whatever,” John rolled his eyes, tugging on Alexander’s hand a little more forcefully until he reluctantly wriggled free of Thomas’ sheets and stood.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Thomas asked immediately, breaking off midway through a string of French he was throwing back at Lafayette, who was standing by the window with his arms crossed, looking morose.</p><p>“Shopping, apparently,” Alexander said, shrugging a little.</p><p>Thomas stared, apparently thrown. “Huh?”</p><p><i>“C'est la balle,”</i> Lafayette said, and Thomas’ expression cleared a little.</p><p>“Oh.” He nodded, watching as John slung an arm around Alexander’s shoulder and began to chivvy him more forcefully from the room. “So... I guess I’ll see you there?”</p><p>Alexander grinned, tried not to think about <i>later</i> and glanced pointedly at Lafayette, still glaring around at everyone as though they had personally offended him; “if the little devil’s advocate over here doesn’t kill you beforehand.”</p><p> </p><p>The nearest town was about twenty minutes away. It had a small cinema and cafes with coffee that was a good deal than what was offered at the college, but students only really bothered to go there on the weekends.</p><p>“Please explain why you’re subjecting me to this,” Alexander asked as he and John walked to the train station after collecting their jackets.</p><p>“Considering the fact that you don’t even own a tie, I don’t see why you’re complaining,” John scoffed, then, before Alexander could open his mouth to protest, “and don’t say you can’t afford it, because mum sent us money so you don’t have to worry.”</p><p>“I’m not, I can’t,” Alexander spluttered, embarrassed that Eleanor felt like she had to pay for his clothes.</p><p>“Alex, it’s fine,” John said, a hand reaching out automatically to grab the back of Alexander’s collar as he made to cross the street, forgetting to look. “It’s a gift.”</p><p>“But! I don’t need – ”</p><p>“It’s fine,” John said again, giving his collar a little tug to make Alexander look at him. “Really. She likes to. Think of it as a favour to her if that makes you feel better.”</p><p>“Right,” Alexander said, still unconvinced, “but she doesn’t need – ”</p><p>“She knows that.” They were walking past an old church, framed by a low brick wall that was crumbling a little in places. There were no gravestones in the yard, only a path of stones leading up to the door of the church, almost entirely obscured with grass. “You know mum,” John shrugged a little, hopping up onto the wall and holding out his arms like a child would, and Alexander smiled reluctantly, “she’s like Eliza, always,” he wobbled, arms flailing a little, ‘wanting to coddle everyone she meets, so it’s,” another wobble, “really our duty to indulge her.”</p><p>He jumped down once he reached the end of the wall, was quiet for a minute, then said out of nowhere, “did you stay with Thomas last night?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Alexander said, wishing John hadn’t brought it up, fishing in his pocket for his travel pass as they neared the station. “I thought he had class yesterday, and I wanted to talk to Nina – ”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Our fish,” Alexander said, a little indignant, “how many times have I told you?”</p><p>“Oh, right,” John nodded sagely, stepping up onto the empty platform and squinting down the tracks, leaning out a little precariously over the edge of the platform. “Nina. How could I forget,” he said, looking like he was biting back a smile.</p><p>“Yes, how could you. She’s very important, you know,” Alexander frowned, “and what are you doing? <i>I’m</i> the one who gambles away their life, stop it.”</p><p>“What? This?” John grinned innocently, leaning out a little farther over the tracks.</p><p>“Stop it! <i>Detenlo ahora,</i> you idiot,” Alexander scolded, reached out to grab John’s hand and pulled him back sharply, whacking his shoulder for good measure. “Anyway, I went to say hello to her and Thomas was there and he was sad so I thought I shouldn’t leave him.”</p><p>“No,” John nodded, looked sideways at him. Alexander determinedly avoided his gaze, glancing off down the platform where the train had appeared in the distance, a small cloud of dust forming a haze around the edges of the tracks “Were you okay with that, though?”</p><p>“With what?”</p><p>“You know, staying.”</p><p>Alexander shrugged, watching as the train drew nearer, slowing as it reached the station. He’d avoided everyone almost entirely since Saturday, for the sole purpose of <i>not having this conversation.</i> </p><p><i>Was</i> he okay with it? He wasn’t quite sure which was worse; how the warmth of Thomas’ body next to his was more comforting than he cared to admit, how Thomas in the morning, sleepy and soft, was something he never really wanted to forget, how Thomas’s fingers would trail over his arm almost absently, the seemingly automatic way his arm would curl around Alexander’s waist. Or the fact that it made him wonder what it would be like to wake up to that every morning, to have that for always. Not having to remind himself not to kiss the soft skin of Thomas’ eyelids when he refused to open them. In those circumstances he would be there for no other reason than the sake of it; but Thomas only wanted him because the dead always come back to haunt you at night, and two are better then one at fending off ghosts.</p><p>John waited patiently for him to answer, didn’t prod him to respond, simply pushed open the door of the compartment for him and then settled opposite him in the booth, leaning back against the ripped leather of the seat.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Alexander said finally, even though it wasn’t, not really.</p><p>“Alright.” John nodded, “well, if you want to talk about it…” he spread out his arms, gave an exaggerated wink and Alexander rolled his eyes, then yelped when John kicked up his feet and rested them on Alexander’s knees.</p><p>“Hey!” he protested, trying and failing to push John off, “I’m not your bloody footrest.”</p><p> </p><p>The village wasn’t too large, but was lively, people bustling in and out of small shops that lined the edge of the main street, couples pausing as they peered into windows, or stopping to nose through the buckets of flowers grouped around the doors of the florist. They stopped off at the post office so Alexander could pick up some stamps and post Anna’s letter, then John spent far too long choosing chocolate, deliberating between little soft-centred squares with crushed hazelnuts and candied orange peel coated with dark praline, dithering for so long that by the time he had finally decided Alexander had eaten half of his own caramels and had wandered off to buy another packet. </p><p>The dress shop was jammed with rack upon rack of clothes; suits and dress shirts, stiff, white collared waistcoats, soft, multi-coloured cords, satin kitten heels and polished, knee-high boots Alexander was sorely tempted to try on. They had to squeeze through the isles, shoving their arms between hangers to pull out a shirt or jacket, John turning his nose up at everything. Alexander left him to it, let the lady help him pick out a suit; soft cotton pants, green but so dark they were almost black and a loose white dress shirt without any buttons that made him feel like he’d just stepped out of a French Victorian portrait and which he loved simply because of how ostentatious it was.</p><p>“I need a glass of whisky, a dark and mysterious past, and possibly a grand manor house in the middle of nowhere that has a crystal chandelier hanging in the entrance,” he told the assistant, Rosemary, a small girl not much older than he was, with round hips and an easy smile.</p><p>She snorted, eyes crinkling in delight; “don’t forget a forbidden lover who you can’t possibly fall for because of how <i>dangerous</i> you are.” She handed him a jacket, made of a juniper green silk. There were faint outlines of flowers trailing over it, stitched with black cotton, barely visible until you looked closely.  “Try this with it.”</p><p>Alexander slipped it on, tugged at the laces of the shirt so that the neck hung a little lower on his chest, exposing a small sliver of skin at his collarbone. “I feel awfully roguish,” he winked at his reflection, adding, “you can tell why they make all the villains horribly depressed in films or whatever. Totally goes with the whole aesthetic.”</p><p>Rosemary giggled, “but the villains are always so <i>delicious.</i>” She nodded appraisingly, “they’re going to eat you right up. Ooh, do your hair in one of those fancy French braids.”</p><p>“I don’t know how,” Alexander said ruefully, tugging on a strand that had come out of his bun and thinking of the last time his hair had been braided; before the gala, Thomas’ fingers tugging instead of his own.</p><p>“I can!” Rosemary said brightly. “Let me do it?”</p><p>“Sure,” Alexander shrugged, took a seat and listened to her chatter away as she gently pulled out his tangles, telling him about her little sister, whose hair she had always braided for school before her sister turned thirteen and was suddenly far too cool for braids.</p><p>“There you are!” John huffed, pushing his way into the change room and glaring at them both reproachfully, “I bring you along to help me and you go and play hairdressers. I’m having a crisis here!”</p><p>Alexander glanced at him in the mirror, caught Rosemary’s eye and snorted. “What, a crisis like a pale blue shirt or a grey shirt?”</p><p>“Oh what do you know about colours,” John sniffed, then raised his eyebrows when he saw what Alexander was wearing. “Nice,” he nodded approvingly, “okay, okay, I take it back, you apparently do know colours.” Then when Alexander stood and twirled for good measure, “yes... how can you make the whole 1800’s thing work? That’s so unfair.”</p><p><i>“Ah, demasiado malo para ti,”</i> Alexander grinned, patted John’s cheek, snorting when John batted him away. “Okay, what’s your crisis?”</p><p>“Help me!” John pleaded, reached out and grabbed both Alexander and Rosemary by the shirtsleeves and dragged them into his own changing room, where he seemed to have collected the shop’s entire collection of dress shirts. He waved an arm around vaguely; “okay which one? I need to look good, yes? Make me look good.”</p><p>Rosemary immediately bustled in and begun holding each shirt in turn up against John, making little noises of assent or dislike as John fussed; “no not that one, that makes me look pale. Oh, no, no I don’t know what I was thinking with that, wait! Try that one agai – oh, no, never mind – ”</p><p>Alexander leant against the door, watching him, lips twitching up into a smile. “Why do you care so much? Aren’t you going with Laf?”</p><p>“Yes,” John said, voice a little strained, looking slightly desperately around at the pile of discarded clothes that was mounting on the floor as Rosemary rejected one shirt after another, “that’s the point. It’s <i>Laf.</i>”</p><p>“So?” Alexander shrugged, wrinkling his nose a little, “shouldn’t that make it easier?”</p><p>“Alex you know nothing,” John huffed, a little petulant, shrugging off his jumper when Rosemary nodded at the shirt she was holding, apparently satisfied, “have you not seen the stuff he wears? It’s all silk and… posh. And he’s all…you know, French and shit.”</p><p>Alexander snorted, tried to bite back his laugh and failed.</p><p>John glared at him. “What!” he muttered,  “the French have high standards.”</p><p> </p><p>Walking back to the university grounds after the train back, Alexander thought back to Lafayette’s mumbled; <i>I would not even be lying,</i> and wondered if there was another reason for John’s frantic obsession that perhaps John didn’t even realise. He bit back a smile, glanced sideways at him, (John was still fretting, Alexander had stopped listening a while ago and was just nodding whenever John paused for breath) and hoped he was right.</p><p>“Hey!” he broke through John’s torrent as they passed by the church again and he caught sight of a sprawling rose bush climbing up around one of the stained glass windows. “Do we need flowers?”</p><p>“Er,” John’s eyes widened a little with fresh panic, “I don’t know! I didn’t think! Should we go back, we should go back, I think we should,” he was speaking rather fast, words tumbling into each other a little and Alexander bit back another snort.</p><p>“We’re not going all the way back, besides there’s some right here,” he gestured vaguely to the rose bush.</p><p>“Alex! You can’t steal from a <i>church.</i> That’s blasphemy.”</p><p>“Pft,” Alexander scoffed, climbing over the wall a little awkwardly, lifting the paper bags holding his new clothes and chocolate before thinking better of it. One leg on either side of the wall he turned, shoving the bags into John’s already laden arms, “I’ve never believed in god, we’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll already be condemned by a long list of sins.”</p><p>“Alex!” John yelped, glaring at him with a frown that was remarkably similar to Eleanor’s. “Come <i>back here,</i>” then, when Alexander only grinned and began to break the roses off, snapping the thin stems and hissing a little when a thorn pricked into the soft skin of his thumb, “serves you <i>right,</i> stealing <i>bastard.</i>”</p><p>He kept up his muttering all the way back to the dorms, but stopped when Alexander broke all the thorns from a stem and tucked it behind his ear, smiling sweetly; “there, pretty little girl.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who the fuck braided your hair!” Was the first thing Lafayette said, an hour or two later, pushing his way into Alexander’s dorm room. John was in the showers, and Alexander was supposed to be getting ready; it was almost six, but he’d been distracted by an idea for an essay he had to finish for ‘Comparative Literature.’</p><p>“That’s <i>my</i> job, how dare you.”</p><p>“Oh, calm down, that’ll mean one less thing we have to do,” Angelica rolled her eyes, coming in behind Lafayette and pushing him further into the room so she could shut the door. Then, upon seeing Alexander sprawled on his bed, “what are you doing! God, you’re hopeless, I <i>knew</i> you wouldn’t be ready. Alex, really – ”</p><p>“We have an entire hour!” Alexander yelped indignantly as Angelica yanked his essay unceremoniously out of his grip and began to tug him to his feet.</p><p>“An <i>hour?</i>” Angelica stopped tugging to give him a withering look.</p><p>“Sweet,” Lafayette shook his head, “you really are too sweet.”</p><p>Alexander glared between the both of them. “Well? That’s ages, why are you here? And I’ll have that back, please,” he made to snatch at his papers but Angelica stepped backwards, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Oh no you don’t, have you even showered yet? Alexander!” She wacked him over the head with his own essay.</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“Alexander, why do you make this so hard,” Lafayette sighed a little, threw Alexander’s towel at him and then began to chivvy him towards the door, ignoring his protests, “we are here to help you look good. It is imperative you look good, yes?”</p><p>“I don’t think Maria – ”</p><p>“It’s not <i>for</i> Maria, you oblivious dipshit. Rub your two brain cells together and try and think about that for a bit.” Angelica huffed, half disparaging, half exasperated. Lafayette pushed him all the way out the dorm and shut the door with a snap before he could protest. A second later it was yanked open an inch and Angelica’s eye appeared in the crack.</p><p>“Have a shower,” she hissed, <i>“now.”</i></p><p>“Fine, fine,” Alexander muttered, “I’m going, calm down.”</p><p>“And don’t touch your hair!” Angelica called after him, “Alex? Alexander! Do you hear me? You are to leave your hair like that, do – ”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander rolled his eyes, “not touching the hair, got it.” He went and showered, brushed his teeth, left his hair in Rosemary’s braid as instructed, and when he got back to his room Lafayette was standing outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Angelica’s muffled shouts could be heard from inside.</p><p>“What…” Alexander started, and Lafayette rolled his eyes even as his scowl deepened a little.</p><p>“Apparently I am not allowed to see John until he is ready, but now you are here, maybe…” he turned and tried to open the door, pulling it open an inch before Angelica screeched from inside;</p><p>“Don’t you dare!”</p><p><i>“Va te faire foutre,”</i> Lafayette grumbled, “stupid woman.”</p><p>“What,” Angelica slipped out the door, shutting it quickly behind her and narrowing her eyes dangerously, “did you call me?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Lafayette muttered hastily, quailing a little, “but this is getting – ”</p><p>“Oh, shut up. Close your eyes so he can come out.”</p><p>“For god’s sake!” John yelled from inside, rapped on the door and Angelica ignored him, glaring at Lafayette.</p><p>“Close them!”</p><p>Lafayette shook his head, muttered something intelligible but did as she asked. John stepped out into the corridor the second Angelica took her hand off the door handle, wearing a suit of a soft honeyed brown, and breeches that had a line of cloth-covered buttons running down the side of his leg, grumbling and looking disgruntled.</p><p>“It’s not like we’re fucking getting married, we’re literally going as <i>friends</i> – ”</p><p>Alexander glanced at Lafayette quickly, saw his lips press together a little and looked away again. “You’re simply gorgeous, darling,” he grinned at John, who rolled his eyes, biting back a reluctant smile.</p><p>“Well I’m being thrown out of my own room because apparently it takes two other people to get you ready, so I’ll see you down there.”</p><p>He turned to Lafayette as Angelica reached for Alexander’s arm, making little clucking noises as she begun to shove him inside.</p><p>“I’ll, um well. See you later?” John asked softly after a beat, nudging his shoulder against Lafayette’s who nodded, turning his face, eyes still closed, in Angelica’s general direction.</p><p>“I suppose I am still not allowed to open my eyes?”</p><p>“No!” Angelica snapped immediately, then rounded on John, flapping her arms at him, “leave!”</p><p>“Jesus,” he muttered, glanced at Alexander and grinned a little, “good luck dealing with the devil woman.”</p><p>Angelica waited until he had disappeared through the door at the end of the corridor, then turned to Alexander. “Right…”</p><p>They made him change, Lafayette fiddling with the laces of his shirt, tying them, sniffing and shaking his head, pulled them apart, then immediately tying them back up. “What do you think?” he murmured to Angelica, pulling them loose again and tugging the edge of the collar down over Alexander’s clavicle. “Better like this, <i>non?</i>”</p><p>“I’m guessing my opinion is irrelevant in all this,” Alexander said dryly, and was met with silence, which he supposed was an answer in itself. Angelica was frowning at his collar.</p><p>“Yes you’re right,” she said absently after a beat, “and I think…” she tied the laces so they were half done up, still a little loose, and looked expectantly at Lafayette, who stood back, squinting and nodding a little.</p><p>“I really don’t think this is quite necessary,” Alexander snapped after a minute in which they continued to study him, “it’s not that import -”</p><p>“Except it is,” Lafayette said abruptly, now fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket, “we are all sick of this, this needs to stop. And it will stop by you looking… <i>que dites-vous les américains? Délectable? Délicieuse?</i>”</p><p>“Like sex on legs,” Angelica nodded, pushed Alexander back until he was sitting on his bed, gave him a sharp slap on each cheek without warning and he winced.</p><p>“What was that for!”</p><p>“You’re so pale,” she scolded, as though it was his fault, “what’s the use of speaking Spanish if you don’t even have the skin for it?”</p><p>She rooted around in her pocket, produced a black pencil, uncapped it and bore down on him, gripping his chin between her fingers and tilting his head up. “Okay…hold still now, and close your eyes.”</p><p>“What the fuck is that?” Alexander said, glaring dubiously at the pencil.</p><p>“Eyeliner,” Lafayette snapped, “and do as she says.”</p><p>“I’m not wearing eyeliner!” Alexander looked between them both, slightly affronted, “I refuse.”</p><p>“Pity you don’t have a choice,” Angelica sniffed, adding <i>“close them,”</i> with such a pointed glare that Alexander did.</p><p>He had to admit it wasn’t <i>such</i> a bad idea, afterwards, when Angelica let him look in the mirror, although he wasn’t sure it was worth all the poking and prodding.</p><p>Angelica and Lafayette were standing a little back from him, appraising their handiwork as though they’d had a very tiring day and were due for a long nap and a few glasses of red wine.</p><p>“Yes,” Lafayette said, looking Alexander up and down slowly, turning to Angelica, “I think that should do it, <i>non?</i>”</p><p>“Hmm,” she nodded thoughtfully, reached out to fix his hair a little, “and if he doesn’t then <i>I’ll</i> get on my knees.”</p><p>“You’ll <i>what,</i> sorry?” Alexander choked, turning around abruptly.</p><p>“Get your head out of your ass,” Angelica said primly. “Right, I have to get ready now, so,” she narrowed her eyes, “don’t touch anything. Okay? Don’t even <i>move,</i> for the next twenty minutes, got it? I’m going to send John up with strict instructions. And I’ll see you down there at six,” she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “What was that?” she asked, when he mumbled something along the lines of, <i>for the love of god.</i> “Thank you kindly, my dearest Angelica, for making me look delicious? Oh!” she waved her hand, “no problem, any time.”</p><p>“The things I sacrifice for you,” Lafayette told him, as he followed Angelica out the door, “I now only have twenty minutes to be ready! Twenty! <i>Oh, mon dieu.</i>”</p><p> </p><p>John came in a few minutes later, looking glum and irritable and slightly nervous, snapping about nothing in particular, and then at Alexander, when he raised his hand to tug at his collar.</p><p>“Don’t you dare!”</p><p>“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Alexander grumbled, “not you as well.”</p><p>“Would you like Angelica to kill me? Because she will.”</p><p>Alexander didn’t doubt it, so dropped his hand, distracting himself again by pulling out his essay.</p><p>They left slightly late, just after six (both conveniently forgot to check the time; “it’s fine,” Alexander told him, when John started to mutter about Angelica again, “Laf won’t be there for another half hour anyway because he’ll be too busy fixing his hair or some shit.”) There were quite a few people out in the corridor and wandering through the grounds, everyone looking slightly out of place in long flowing skirts, dinner jackets and stiff collars; the same people Alexander was used to seeing in pyjamas and mismatched socks.</p><p>The corridor leading to the hall was dimly lit, the light golden against the warmth of the sandstone. When they got to the entrance it was packed, people waiting for friends and partners, though no one talking particularly loud. Someone had strung fairy lights up the banisters of the staircase and around the door of the hall. Glancing quickly inside as John pulled him by the hand through the crowd, Alexander saw that the tables had been removed, replaced with small round tables that were arranged off to one corner. There were waist-coated servers floating around offering tall flutes of champagne, and the chandelier that hung in the centre and was usually covered in cobwebs had been lit for the first time since the 250th anniversary of the hall, two years ago.</p><p>Alexander followed John as he weaved a path through the crowd, his heart quickening a little, but when they reached the others Thomas was absent. Alexander didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed.</p><p>Lafayette turned immediately to John, so Alexander kissed Eliza and Angelica on the cheek, told them both they looked lovely, which they did – then turned to Maria who grinned a little wickedly, let him kiss her hand then pulled him in to hiss in his ear;</p><p>“I presume you’re not looking like that for me?”</p><p>“How dare you,” Alexander scoffed, pretending to look outraged, “what an outrageous suggestion.” Adding, “oh, by the way…” and offered her a rose, sans the thorns.</p><p>“Oh, look at that, you do know how to be sweet.” Maria was smiling in spite of herself, took the rose and lifted it up to bury her nose in its petals. Her back was turned innocently, though perhaps purposely, to Eliza, who was listening to whatever Angelica was saying with a rather determined expression. “Did you buy me flowers?”</p><p>“Pft, who do you take me for,” Alexander grinned a little, had to physically force himself not to glance behind him at the corridor again, just to see, obviously, not to <i>look</i> for anyone, “no, I stole them from a church.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” Maria said, a little deadpan, though she was still smiling a little, “why am I not even surprised.”</p><p>He ignored her, offered his arm instead. “Do you want to get champagne drunk with me?”</p><p>“Oh, definitely,” Maria nodded, pressing her lips together and taking his arm.</p><p>“Right,” Alexander turned to everyone as Maria began to tug him away, “we’ll see you later then.”</p><p>John and Lafayette were standing a little off to the side, Lafayette had his head bent a little to listen as John whispered something in his ear, neither of them paying much attention to anyone else.</p><p>“Wait!” Angelica called, “don’t get too drunk!” Then, seeming to consider, muttering to Eliza; “although that might speed things along a bit, so,” she raised her voice again, “never mind! Ignore that, get drunk and save us all some grief.”</p><p>Alexander opened his mouth to reply, decided he wasn’t even going to bother so let Maria tug him into the hall. They snagged two glasses each off a table at the entrance, drained them in quick succession, then Maria had the splendid idea that dancing would help them get dizzier faster. It did. </p><p> </p><p>In the weeks that followed the <i>night after the ball,</i> as Alexander preferred to think of it, when he went over, again and again, the chain of events that lead up to <i>that moment</i> – trying to figure out what exactly was the thing he had done, the mistake he had made that lead up to it, he found himself only going round in circles. Sometimes he thought it was something simple, a word he’d said, a look they’d shared. Other times thought that perhaps it was many things; that it began when he’d realised that John and Lafayette were suddenly nowhere to be found, or when he’d let Maria slip off to Eliza, leaving him unprotected and undistracted, or maybe when he’d finally wandered over to Thomas, or bumped into him, he couldn’t remember now, and realised that Thomas was just as drunk as he was. Or perhaps it was earlier, in Thomas’ bed in the morning when he really should have already left, or the day before, when he’d come looking for Nina and found Thomas instead, or before that, sitting beside John on the bathroom floor.</p><p>Sometimes, when he was feeling really pathetic, he thought that it might have started years ago, at that bonfire during his second week when he started college, or maybe at thirteen years old, fresh off the boat and breathing in American sea air for the first time. Or perhaps eons ago – an age, it seemed – when he had looked down and seen his first tattoo.</p><p>Alexander had made a lot of bad decisions in his lifetime – too many mistakes to count, in fact, so much so that sometimes he felt like bad decisions were all he was capable of. However he had narrowed it down to seven that he deemed so cataclysmically catastrophic that ‘bad’ was no longer an accurate description. Those seven mistakes were relegated to a class on their own, under epithets such as ‘monumental fuck-ups,’ ‘mistakes Satan would be proud of,’ and other such terms of similar sentiments.</p><p>Most of them consisted of leaving:</p><p>Three years old, his mamá had told him to run round to their neighbours and give them some lemons from the tree growing outside their kitchen window. Alexander had <i>left her,</i> had stayed for some sugared cookies. By the time he came back his mamá was unconscious and his father was dragging Jamie over the threshold, kicking and screaming, and Alexander wasn’t strong enough to pull him back.</p><p>The first time his father had returned after his mamá had died, there was no money waiting for him in the flour tin. His rage had been a living thing; had shattered the windows, given Alexander a swelling welt over his left eye and he had run. He <i>left</i> the house for a week and when he returned it was smoking rubble.</p><p>Pete had never been particularly happy, and when he was drunk he was rash, was brave and daring. Unhappiness and recklessness never worked well together, Alexander knew. If he was with Pete it was okay; Alexander could pull him away from open windows, could lead them the long way home rather than walk across the bridge. But one night, after he’d had to sell his mamá’s earrings for rent they had fought, and he’d <i>left.</i> When he came back in the early morning Pete was hanging with his feet level with Alexander’s eyes.</p><p>After coming to the States, one of the families Alexander had stayed with had an uncle who reminded him of his father. He’d sat perched on the edge of his bed as voices downstairs grew louder and louder, until suddenly there were footsteps on the stairs. He’d locked the door, heart spattering and frenzied, stuffed his belongings into his bag and <i>left,</i> squeezed himself out the window and was halfway down the street before he realised he had forgotten his mamá’s poetry book.</p><p>At his first initiation bonfire night, when he had seen Thomas across from him, he hadn’t gone up, said, ‘hi, I’m Alex,’ but had <i>left</i>; followed Angelica back to the dorms and hadn’t not spoken to Thomas in any other form than yelled insults for the next three years and ended up embroiled in all this mess.</p><p>Once, during his first year of university, he had argued with his professor over his essay topic, had refused to apologise and had <i>left.</i> It was the first and last ‘fail’ he had ever received.</p><p>And now; the seventh mistake – where he didn’t leave, but stayed.</p><p>Though he could never exactly work out how it happened, when exactly was the point that he had made that seventh mistake, whether it was an inevitable consequence decided years ago that got passed through his life like dominos, one mistake falling into the other, or from just one moment, the mistake still lead to this; his back pressed against the cool sandstone of the darkened corridor, his jacket forgotten somewhere on the stairs, and his lips against Thomas’.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title is a verse by Brenna Twohy. </p><p>Thank you for reading :) Kudos and comments are very much appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Explanation of the soulmate au: </p><p>- Things you lose appear on your soulmate as black-lined tattoos. (this doesn't have to be big, like the death of a family member, it can be really small, like if you break your favourite mug, or lose an item of clothing, or if you lose something you love that you associated with someone, e.g your mum dies and you miss her cooking.)<br/>- When your soulmate kisses the tattoo it turns into colour.<br/>- You need your soulmate for survival - so if you haven't met them by 30 (or if you meet and reject each other) your body can't function, and so you die.<br/>- Aspects like gender aren't a huge issue in this au - your soulmate is your soulmate regardless of who they are, and you're both meant for each other</p></blockquote></div></div>
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